


The One I Feed

by atlasthend



Series: The Wild and Wayward [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Het Relationship, College, Coming of Age, Depression, F/M, Growing Up Together, Heavy Angst, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Pining, Pre-Series, Pre-Stanford, Sam Winchester-centric, Self-Harm, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Spirit Animals, Stanford Era, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Weecest, Winchester Feels, native american legends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-10 00:53:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7823869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlasthend/pseuds/atlasthend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a hunt goes horribly wrong, how much will Sam Winchester be willing to trade for a shot at a normal life? Which wolf will he feed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: It goes without saying that I don't own Supernatural or the characters affiliated. Also, I may be totally enthralled by it, but I'm by no means an expert on native american culture or the legends and stories associated with it. I don't mean to offend anyone by writing this; my only intentions were to have fun. And believe me, I've had so much. Researching and plotting and watching it all come together in front of me has been one of the most satisfying writing experiences of my life. I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

> An old Grandfather said to his grandson, who came to him with anger at a friend who had done him an injustice... "Let me tell you a story.  
>  "I too, at times, have felt great hate for those who have taken so much, with no sorrow for what they do. But hate wears you down, and does not hurt your enemy. It's like taking poison and wishing your enemy would die. I have struggled with these feelings many times.  
>  "It is as if there are two wolves inside me; one is good and does no harm. He lives in harmony with all around him and does not take offense when no offense was intended. He will only fight when it is right to do so, and in the right way.  
>  "But...the other wolf... ah! The littlest thing will send him into a fit of temper. He fights everyone, all of the time, for no reason. He cannot think because his anger and hate are so great. It is helpless anger, for his anger will change nothing.  
>  "Sometimes it is hard to live with these two wolves inside me, for both of them try to dominate my spirit."  
>  The boy looked intently into his Grandfather's eyes and asked, "Which one wins, Grandfather ?"  
>  The Grandfather smiled and quietly said, " _The one I feed._ "

  


The South Dakota heat beats down on Sam's shoulders and sweat pours off of him in waves, slicking his hair to the top of his head and staining the collar of the baggy, hand-me-down Zeppelin t-shirt he wears, sleeves rolled up to the tops of his shoulders to reveal his scrawny arms as he stacks sheets of scrap metal for Uncle Bobby. He should've lost the shirt a long time ago, but bashfulness makes him clam up in the face of his brother, who's recently taken to teasing him whenever Sam comes out of the shower. Typical big brother things, really, just calling him string bean and reaching out with a shit-eating grin to pinch one of Sam's bubblegum pink nipples. The teasing started up a few weeks ago when Dean caught him in the bathroom of their shitty motel room, leaning in toward his reflection in the mirror over the sink, Dean's razor grasped in one hand as he felt for hairs on his face with the other. He'd been nothing but dejected to find his skin baby-smooth, and Dean had made it a million times worse by choosing that moment to barge in to take a piss. The rueful smile that pulled up the corners of Dean's lips had had Sam ducking his head and storming out of the room without a single word between the two of them.  
But then Dean hasn't said anything about it since. And that's something, at least.  
Sam shakes his head to dispel the memory and relieve himself of the sweat dripping down his forehead and into his eyes and goes back to the task Bobby gave him that morning.  
Every now and again, he looks over to find Dean still hunched under the open hood of Bobby's Chevelle, his face a mask of concentration as he pokes and prods around inside to try to find the root of the problem Bobby described when John dropped them off a few days ago. Sam's sure Bobby could've found the source of the noise himself, but the man never misses an opportunity to offer either of the Winchester boys work. He prides himself on finding ways to keep the two of them busy while they're here, and he's taught Dean more about cars than their own father who'd once been a mechanic. And even with the back-breaking labor that Bobby usually assigns him, Sam still prefers the man over their dad.  
Because when Sam declares he's taking a break and Dean pulls his nose out of Bobby's engine just long enough to ask Sam to bring him back a beer, Sam finds Bobby waiting on the front porch with a pitcher of ice water and a six pack, condensation dripping down the sides. And Bobby only nods at him with a grunt, acting like it doesn't mean anything at all to the thirteen year old kid who's never spent such a pleasant, yet exhausting day out under the hot sun only to come home to something like this, who's spent his whole life sleeping in dingy motel beds and eating greasy fast food for dinner every night and is praised only when he's properly pieced a .45 back together or almost bested his older brother in hand-to-hand combat.  
And here is Bobby Singer. Sitting in a lawn chair that's seen better days, feet kicked out in front of him and the bill of his cap down far enough to cover eyes that soften every time they set on the boy in the baggy hand-me-down t-shirt, threadbare jeans, and ratty converse sneakers who's been forced to grow into a man before he's even grown facial hair. Here is Bobby Singer with a home-cooked meal every night and a warm smile when the three of them sit down on the couch out in front of the TV because no one could be assed to clean off the kitchen table, littered with volumes of books on the supernatural world Sam's still trying to understand half a decade after his big brother told him what was really out there. Here is Bobby Singer with a house that's always open to the Winchester boys, a house with peeling, faded blue paint and a layer of dust over everything inside, a house that Sam will always be proud to think of as the closest thing to a home he's ever had.  
Here is Bobby Singer who only coughs and averts his eyes when Sam reaches for the chipped glass at the man's feet, tears rolling down his cheeks. Here is Bobby Singer with a dirty rag pulled out of the back pocket of his jeans when Sam tries hastily wiping those tears away with the back of his sweaty arm and only makes his eyes burn and blur even more. Here is Bobby Singer with a smile that doesn't quite reach his sad eyes, gruff voice soft, "Got some dust in your eyes, boy?"  
And here is Dean Winchester, picking just the right moment to ruin a moment. "Hey, Sam! What's takin' so long with that beer?"  
Sam ducks his head as his big brother comes around the corner to the front of the house and Bobby turns a stern eye on the older boy, mouth drawn into a frown, "You got two legs of your own, ain't you, boy? Sam here's earned himself a break. I haven't seen you so much as pick up a wrench since you finally started in on that Chevelle out back."  
And then it's Dean's turn to duck his head, shuffling his feet in the dirt at Bobby's scolding.  
But Bobby never could stay cross at either of them for long, not the Winchester boys at least. Dad's a different story as far as Sam can tell; he's noticed hard spots between the two men for years, even heard Bobby threaten Dad once as he and Dean piled their shit back into the Impala after a particularly long stay. Sam remembers they didn't come back for at least another six months afterwards, remembers wishing he'd turned in his seat to get one last glance at Bobby's place, drink it in because there's always a chance he might never see it again. And since then he's always been heartbroken to watch the salvage yard fade away in the rear view mirror. Because that always means he has to go months before he has another moment like this.  
Bobby finally grins and shakes his head at Dean who beams back up at the man before climbing up the front porch steps to take a seat on the very top one and look imploringly up at Sam, green eyes sad and pleading. Sam hears Bobby's scoff and can't help the smile that finds its way onto his face as he twists the cap off of one bottle and hands it to his brother with a roll of his eyes. Dean looks almost too pleased with himself as he finally wraps his lips around the rim and tips his head back to take a big swig before putting it down between his feet.  
Sam takes a seat on the step beside Dean, molding his lanky body to his brother's side as Dean wraps an arm around his shoulders and shakes him just a little. And then Dean's attention is on Bobby as the two of them talk animatedly about what could possibly be making the rattling sound the man indicated upon their arrival. Which is a good thing. Because Dean misses the way that Sam's lashes lower as Dean's heady scent fills his nose, misses the way that Sam's eyes travel down the sensual curve of Dean's throat to his collarbone where the amulet that Sam gave him that Christmas five years ago still hangs, like a promise... or a claim. _Mine,_ Sam thinks possessively. _Mine._  
He couldn't have told anyone when it started if they'd asked. Sam's just always thought that Dean was beautiful. Like a little island in the sea of the ugly life they live. Dean's been there for Sam for as long as he can remember, and even further back, from the time that the smell of burning flesh curled around him in his crib in the nursery and Dad put him into Dean's arms and told him to run. And they never stopped running, not really. Maybe that's why Sam feels the way he does. Maybe it's the cramped quarters, the way they've grown up in each other's pockets. Or maybe Sam's just fucked in the head. He's never met any other thirteen year old boy who happened to be in love with his older brother. And they've been everywhere, seen everything.  
Whatever the reason, he stopped trying to deny what he was feeling for Dean a while ago.  
Sam lets his eyes trail back up from the amulet, thinking of all the ways he wants to mark up Dean's pretty, sun-kissed skin so that everyone knows who he belongs to. He doesn't have enough fingers to count the number of times he's fantasized about sucking bruises into the flesh of Dean's neck, just high enough that Dean would have to pop the collar of his flannel so Dad didn't see- the same way that Dean hid the love-bites some girl at school in Indiana had given him so Dad didn't give him hell for being a teenage boy ruled by his hormones and not the perfect, sexless soldier he was supposed to be. Thinking about giving Dean a mark that he can't hide is the thing that never fails to make Sam cum when he escapes into the cramped motel bathrooms, the water from the shower-head beating down on his shoulders as he furiously fists his cock in his hand until he comes apart, shaking and satiated, but aching inside. Aching for his brother. Sam's already picked the place that he'd leave such an obvious mark, and his eyes find it now, gaze lighting on the corner of Dean's jaw and the way it jumps as he's talking with Bobby. Sam wants to nip and bite and suck at that point until Dean's sobbing and begging for Sam to kiss him. To kiss his lips. Sam sucks in a breath and doesn't let himself look at them, doesn't let himself imagine Dean's pretty, pretty mouth all red and swollen from being sucked and bitten and invaded with Sam's tongue for hours. Doesn't let himself think about how good those lips would look wrapped around two of Sam's long fingers instead of the rim of a beer bottle the way they are now.  
And then Sam is shaking himself back to reality just in time to realize he's dangerously close to coming in his pants. And Dean is putting his beer back down between his feet and turning his eyes on Sam.  
"Ground Control to Major Tom. Hey, space cadet, did you hear a word Bobby just said?"  
"Ah, no, I was-"  
"Spacing out. Yeah, I know," Dean snorts, infuriatingly beautiful green eyes glittering with amusement. And something else. Something sad. Something like regret. "He said Dad called a little while ago. Just to let us know he's probably not gonna be able to make it back in time for your birthday next week."  
Sam sits there, staring at Dean's face and unable to comprehend his words for a few moments before it finally dawns on him.  
_His birthday. Next week._ He'd forgotten.  
_Dad won't be there._  
It hits him like a punch to the gut. Leaves him winded even though he knows if he'd remembered beforehand he would've been able to anticipate Dad not being there. He would've been prepared for this disappointment. He would've been able to hide how much this really hurts him.  
As it stands now, he's shaking where he sits on the steps pressed into Dean's side. He's shaking and his fists are clenched and he couldn't feel any smaller if he tried. Beside him, Dean is rigid, pulled taut with worry, the concern on his face blatant in the set of his mouth, the green of his eyes, the crease between his eyebrows. He opens his mouth and Sam just. He can't take Dean asking if he's okay right now. He can't.  
And so he knocks Dean's arm from around his shoulders when he stands up and storms into the house. Stomps his way up the stairs to the spare bedroom that they share. Slams the door. Stands in the silence for a full three seconds before he's crying, hot and wet and noisy, his body wracked by sobs that he tries desperately to hold in. He throws himself onto the squeaky bed in the corner of the room, pulling a pillow up over his face so he can be as loud as his body demands without having to worry about Dean hearing him. Imagining that makes him cry even harder, and he just can't stop the little choked noises coming out of his throat, pulled tight as a bow string. His chest feels almost vise-like, crushing his heart where it sits behind his rib cage.  
He doesn't even know why he cares so much. It's not like he and Dad have been what anyone would call close lately. And more often than not, Sam's pissed at the man for moving them around so much, for taking away the only childhood Sam's got, for treating him like a soldier instead of a son.  
But Dad's still Dad. And Sam's still Sam. Even as he falls asleep there on the bed in Bobby's spare room, his cheeks wet with tears and the salt water-soaked pillow still gripped tight in his little boy hands. The last thing he notes before he goes under is that the smell of Dean is overwhelming here in the quiet and dark.  
He tightens his arms around the pillow and breathes his brother in as his eyes slip closed and doesn't open them again until he feels a gentle hand on his cheek, a soft cloth being brushed over his skin, fingers trailing absently through his shaggy brown hair. He listens to Dean humming Guns N' Roses' "Knockin' on Heaven's Door," and tries not to lean into the gentle touches too much, afraid that they'll stop if Dean realizes he's awake. Still, he can't help satisfying his curiosity, cracking one eye open only to find his brother staring down at him, green eyes soft. Sam's breath catches in his throat, but Dean still hasn't pulled away even though his gaze is locked with Sam's.  
"You're still gonna have the best birthday ever, little brother. Just you wait." Dean's voice is nothing but a whisper, and Sam almost has to strain to hear it. But the next words out of Dean's mouth make his blood turn to ice in his veins, make him go utterly still beneath Dean's light hands. "I-I wish I could make it okay. Wish you didn't have to settle for just me 'n Bobby. But we. We don't need him, Sammy. Just. Just need each other." Dean's voice sounds suspiciously wet, but Sam can't bring himself to look for tears in those green eyes. His heart's beating too fast. His own eyes are burning. "You got me. You always got me."  
When Dean stills his hands and gets up from the bed a few moments later, Sam wishes with all his heart that he could figure out how to make his mouth work again. He's deathly silent as he watches the stiff set of Dean's shoulders disappear through the door. Dean doesn't so much as glance back at him, but Sam doesn't have to see Dean's face to know that he's crying. And that this has somehow left both of them with wounds raw and open and sore.  


They don't talk about it. The week goes by and neither of them says a word about the ache that Dad's absence has created. They still sit down to dinner every night with Bobby on the couch, still help out with Bobby's calls any way they can, still goof and get under Bobby's feet when they're feeling restless from being in the same place for too long, still suffer the repercussions when Bobby retaliates with nothing but work, work, work. Dean still sings along to the old radio Bobby set out by the Chevelle where he's finally working on fixing the problem he's found, still pinches one of Sam's nipples after every shower, still snorts with amusement at Sam's weak attempts at retaliation and the blush high in his cheeks, still grins and thanks him when Sam braves the hot sun outside just to bring him a beer. But there are times when Sam catches Dean looking at him, a softness in his eyes like he can't believe Sam's turning fourteen, that he'll be headed to high school in the fall, that in just four short years Sam will be a legal adult. That the little brother who cried himself to sleep just a few days ago because Dad was going to miss his birthday is growing up.  
It makes Sam's heart ache with the need to tell his brother what he should've that day. That Dean's got him. That Sam's not going anywhere. That it's them against the world and it always will be. No matter how old he gets. No matter what. But he clams up, can't get the words out for fear that he'll break his promise someday. _Can't hurt Dean that way. Can't._  


May 2nd comes. And it's the best day of his life.  
He wakes because he's cold. Dean's tugged all the blankets off of him in the middle of the night again, he realizes with his usual twinge of annoyance. Opening his eyes, he finds the usual cocooned shape that is Dean, turned away from him and snug and warm in all the sheets. Sam reaches out a hand slowly, intent on smacking his brother on the side of the face in vengeance. But when he swoops his hand down, he's met only with soft cotton. Frowning, he tugs the lump of sheets toward him. And finds that they're empty, of course, save for one folded up scrap of paper that falls into Sam's lap.  
Frowning, he unfolds the scrap and there is Dean's messy scrawl: " _Wake up and take a shower, Sleeping Beauty. You reek._ "  
Sam grins down at the note for a few moments before he throws his feet over the side of the bed to get up and make the short trek to the bathroom down at the end of the hall. He gets into the shower and somehow manages to make it through washing and rinsing his hair before the light goes out and he shouts in the darkness, water still cascading down his back. He feels defenseless like this, naked and blind, but the light's back on almost immediately and Sam writes it off as just the power flickering. After all, the weather reports had been calling for a storm sometime today.  
He finishes washing up and gets out, blinking water from his eyes. He dries his face with a towel and then his eyes set on the small box sitting on the counter by the sink. There's a folded scrap of paper on top, the edges slightly damp and curling from the condensation that's also fogged the mirror over the sink. Sam opens the note and reads: " _Figured you could use one of your own. Sorry they didn't have one in pink. I know it's your favorite color. Get dressed and get your ass downstairs._ "  
With shaking hands, Sam opens the box and finds his very own razor, some kind of Gillette thing that he's sure Dean picked up from the Walmart in town. Sam picks it up reverently, eyes shining. He rubs the mirror clean with the underside of his forearm, leaning in toward his reflection the way that he did when Dean caught him a few weeks ago, just like this. And just like last time, he can't find a single hair. But unlike last time, he can't find it in himself to feel even a little dejected. He can't do anything but beam at himself in the mirror, his hair slicked back from his face and his tanned skin still wet from the shower. He dries off and wraps the towel around his waist before heading back out into the hall, his new razor in hand. For once, Dean's not there to ambush him and he smiles as he walks back to the spare bedroom to get dressed and put his present in the front pocket of his bag.  
Ten minutes later, clad in his holey chuck taylors, a pair of dark blue jeans, a gray t-shirt and a ratty, old blue flannel, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, he stoops down to collect another folded note at the bottom of the stairs. " _Took you long enough, princess. You all ready for the ball? Go have a big bowl of cereal for your Prince Charming. And you know I'm charming. Look it up in the dictionary. There should be a picture of me as the definition._ "  
Sam rolls his eyes and walks into the kitchen. And freezes.  
The table's been cleared off. The kitchen looks clean, dusted even. There's not a single book that he can see. A box of Froot Loops sits at one end of the table, a bowl and spoon by its side. Sam swallows, but crosses the room in a few strides to pour the cereal into the bowl. A folded scrap of paper falls into the bowl alongside the Froot Loops and he digs it out. " _Eat first, you should, young Skywalker,_ " suggests Dean's careless chicken scratch on the outside. Somehow, Sam manages to resist the temptation and sits through a hurried bowl of cereal, shoving spoonful after spoonful into his mouth and practically chugging the milk when he turns up the bowl.  
Finally he opens the note and reads, " _Hope you like the prize at the bottom of the box. Meet me out back to collect them all._ "  
Sam scrambles for the box, turning it upside down once more. Nothing comes out. _Oh god. If he ate one of Dean's presents-_ But when Sam peers into the box, he finds his prize. His eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline as he scrapes out the hundred dollar bill taped to the bottom. He stares down at it in his hand and a warmth blooms in his chest. _It's the most money he's ever had at one time in his whole life._  
He pockets the bill and starts for the back door, smiling so wide it feels like his face might crack.  
There's a full piece of paper taped to the screen door, big, blocky letters across the page that yell, " _Happy Birthday, Sammy!_ "  
And then Sam is opening the door and oh.  
_Oh._  
There's Dean, a wide smile pulling up the corners of his lips as he stares out at Sam from the passenger seat of Bobby's Chevelle. The cassette player blasts Dean's copy of Zeppelin 2, and Sam has never thought that Robert Plant sounded more beautiful than right now, in this moment. And Dean's looking at him, Dean's smiling with his mouth and his eyes and Sam feels so weak in the knees he doesn't know how he makes it all the way over to the car. But he does.  
Dean grins up at him, squinting in the glare of the mid-day sun, and Sam wants to kiss him. Sam wants to bend down and kiss him right there in the middle of the salvage yard. Right in front of Bobby, who's actually sporting a genuine smile for once. Right in broad daylight for the whole world and God to see. But he doesn't.  
Instead, he smiles. He smiles so much it hurts. It hurts enough to match the ache in his chest. "Thanks, Dean."  
"I told you you were gonna have the best birthday ever, didn't I?" Dean's voice is loud and boisterous the way it always is. But Sam's breath still catches in his throat as he remembers Dean's hushed words, his soft hands, the way his voice cracked when he told Sam all they needed was each other. It's the closest they've come to talking about it since it happened. But just like that, Dean is diverting his attention away from that moment, away from the fact that Dad's not here. "Well, you gonna get in or you gonna stand there like a bump on a log and make me and Bobby leave your ass here?"  
Sam shakes his head to clear it and slides into the backseat behind Dean. "Where are we going?"  
Dean turns his head to offer Sam a devilish smirk, "That's for me to know and for you to find out, little brother."  
Bobby snorts where he sits behind the wheel and Sam can almost hear the man rolling his eyes when he turns the keys in the ignition. The Chevelle starts up with a low rumble before they pull out of the salvage yard and onto the open road. And they drive. They drive for what feels like hours. They drive until Bobby is tired of Dean's singing and finally shuts off the old radio, smacks Dean's hand when he reaches out like he's gonna try and turn it back on again. They drive until Sam is tired of both the license plate game and i spy. They drive until Sam's stomach is rumbling with hunger and Dean's obviously not too far off himself, if the longing looks he's shooting at every restaurant they drive past are anything to go by.  
Finally though, they make it to the shopping center. Sam is like a live wire in the backseat, bouncing around and trying to take in as much of the outside of the mall as he can. When Bobby parks the Chevelle, he practically jumps out the window rather than actually waiting for Dean to get out so he can slip out from behind the passenger seat. When he finally climbs out, Dean and Bobby have their heads together, talking. Sam hears Dean ask, "So, food court first?"  
Sam's hunger was extinguished the second he set eyes on this place and realized where they were going, though, and he lets Dean know as much. "I'm not hungry."  
Dean turns, green eyes wide and uncomprehending. "What?"  
"I said I'm not hungry."  
"But Sam- Oh, come on, man! We'll get somethin' to eat and then walk it off!"  
Bobby gives a low chuckle, amused, and tries to stifle his quiet laughter as he pockets his keys. "'Give the kid whatever he wants,' he says."  
Dean gives the man an icy glare and grudgingly starts forward until he gets a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Alright, let's go."  
Sam beams up at him and Dean falters for a moment, the scathing flintiness of his eyes softening into something small and uncertain. Like he's not entirely sure Sam's genuinely happy or not. Still, when Sam starts toward the door, Dean follows, covering him like a shadow. Bobby isn't far behind and makes his presence known every once in a while, telling the "pair of idjits" in front of him to slow down, that he's not as young as he used to be.  
Sam flits from one store to the next, eyes alight with a childish glee that Dean's all too happy to see is still there. Turning fourteen hasn't so much as changed a hair on his brother's head, it seems. He still laughs when Dean puts on the dumbest hat they can find in the novelty store, still gushes when he finds a CD he likes in the music store, still looks at Dean with hero-worship in his eyes when Dean hands him the bag after buying it for him, still rolls his eyes when Dean and Bobby wander into the tool section in Sears, still sneaks off to buy a bag of candy from the sweet shop they passed on their way into Sears, still offers Dean a few gummy worms when Dean looks longingly at the little brown bag. There's nothing to suggest that he's already turning into the man that puberty will swallow up and spit back out.  
Mid-day turns into afternoon. Finally, they sit down at the food court and Bobby kicks out his legs and tells them to bring him back something hot and greasy with a cold drink. They settle on the burger joint and Dean's mouth is noticeably watering by the time they get the food back to the table. He practically throws Bobby's burger at him and wastes no time in ripping open his own. Sam can't even hide his amusement as he watches Dean dig in like he's just gotten back from a year long trip to some foreign country without a single McDonald's. When Dean catches him staring, he's got a mouthful of burger and his voice is muffled, "Whumph?"  
Sam just laughs and starts unwrapping his own burger. The delighted gleam in Dean's eyes is all he needs in this world.  
The mall starts closing up not long after that, and the three of them mosey back to the parking lot after gorging themselves on at least three more (Dean had four more) burgers each. They're all bone-tired from walking for hours and lazy and content from the food in their bellies and Sam falls asleep in the backseat pretty easily in the near dark of the Chevelle, interrupted sporadically by the light from the streetlamps of the city, but only until they finally get back onto the highway. And he dreams of Dean. He dreams he's in a meadow, Dean at his side. The sun is high in the sky and Sam feels sweat dripping down the small of his back, rolls his shoulders in an attempt to rid himself of that gross feel of wetness traveling in a slow trail down his spine. He looks over to find Dean stubbornly clad in his usual, a t-shirt under a flannel under the leather jacket Dad gave him. Sam opens his mouth, prepared to ask Dean if he's roasting alive under all those layers. But then he watches, eyes wide and struck dumb from shock, as the back of that hand-me-down leather jacket his brother wears flaps in a sudden, brief gust of wind and forms wings before Sam's eyes. Suddenly Dean is a bird and Sam is the one who's been tasked with catching him.  
Sam runs after the bird that was his brother, runs until he can't feel his legs and every breath is a struggle and his heart feels like it's about to burst in his chest, it's beating so hard. He runs with his arms stretched as high as he can stretch the skinny fourteen year old boy things. And he yells into the sky, yells Dean's name. Yells that Dean can't leave him. He promised. He can't.  
Sam wakes with a start. He never caught the bird. But there's Dean, staring at him with green eyes that almost seem to gleam in the near dark as he leans over the passenger seat, his hand on Sam's arm that's spasming up toward the air. Bobby's nowhere to be found, and there's an amused little grin curling up the corners of Dean's lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Anxiety takes root in Sam's rib cage; he swallows and his throat feels thick and tastes of sleep. He makes himself watch with a fluttering heart as Dean opens his mouth, pauses, closes it. And that's how Sam knows he was talking in his sleep again. But he can't bring himself to ask what it was that he said.  
They stare at each other in the silent darkness of the Chevelle until a light pattering begins on the roof of the car. In one fluid motion, both of them turn and look to the yellow ochre light of the lamp atop the utility pole a little ways off in the salvage yard to make sure that it's really raining. Neither of them makes any comment about it, even when the rain starts to grow heavy and the pattering above turns into pounding.  
Finally, Dean slips his hand into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a small black box. Then he slips that into Sam's hands. Sam stares down at it in between his palms, unable to comprehend that there's anything left for Dean to give him after his admission a week ago. Unable to believe that Dean could give him anything better than the promise of an always and forever together.  
"Open it." Dean's voice is hoarse. He sounds like he hasn't talked in a week but they can't have been cooped up in this car alone together for more than ten minutes.  
Sam's hands shake as he lifts the lid and peers inside. And a leather band stares up at him. A leather band with what looks like protective symbols etched into the skin. Sam picks it up gingerly; his heart is a jackhammer behind his ribs, his face is hot, and his eyes are wet. He turns the band around and around in his hands, his eyes struggling to take in every detail in the dark. The lines are so careful and clean and precise that Sam has no trouble figuring out whose steady hand carved them. He's watched that same hand sew up his father too many times to count, watched it pour out milk into his cereal when he was too young and small and weak to even lift the jug, watched it fashion his brother's hair into the careful spikes he likes every morning in the bathroom mirror. Sure enough, his roaming eyes finally come to rest on the **DW** Dean carved into the inside of the band and he smoothes his thumb over these particularly rough and careless scratches, can't help thinking that they're the most beautiful part of the whole thing. Can't help thinking about how he'll have Dean's initials against his skin forever now.  
"Bobby, uh. Bobby said I had to sign it. Like an artist puts his name on paintings, yanno?" Dean sounds all of seven years old, and Sam, for the life of him, can't stop smiling.  
He wraps the band around his left wrist, fastens the clasps, and feels Dean's initials directly against his pulse. He ducks his head and allows himself a moment to suck in a quick breath and close his eyes to revel in the sensation, and then he looks up at Dean. Dean meets his eyes, so unsure, so worried that it's not enough. That he's not enough.  
Sam absolutely beams at him. "I love it, Dean. This is the best present I've ever gotten. Really."  
Dean still looks a little unsure, but a small smile plays over his lips anyway and he reaches out to muss Sam's hair. "Good. Because believe me, I spent hours and hours on that thing."  
Sam runs his thumb over the markings on the band, tracing over the lines to better appreciate them with the knowledge of how painstakingly long it took to create something so amazing. His smile turns wistful and he doesn't meet Dean's eyes when he speaks. "It's beautiful." _Just like you,_ he adds, silently.  
Dean clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck, clearly eager to change the subject. "So you, uh. You ready to brave the storm?" A glint of something like mischief shines in Dean's eyes as he hastens to add, "Me 'n Bobby got one more surprise for you in there."  
Sam immediately perks up at that, but he almost cringes when he gazes out into what's now a downpour outside, trying to gauge the distance from the Chevelle to the back door. He doesn't like their odds of not getting soaked to the skin. But, fearing teasing from Dean if he were to say no, he shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest, juts his chin out, "Sure, I guess."  
Dean gives him a gleeful smile... and then his hand shoots out to shove the door open before he launches himself out into the rain, voice barely audible over the water pounding the roof, but Sam still hears him call back over his shoulder, "First one inside gets the first piece!"  
Sam doesn't let himself think about Dean's cryptic words, just jumps out and slams the door behind him before speeding off after his brother, drenched to the bone as soon as he put a foot out. He sees Dean dodging around cars, the light from the utility pole illuminating how the back of his leather jacket whips out behind him when he runs, and Sam is immediately reminded of the dream from before. He smirks then. Because this is reality. Dean's no master of the skies here. And Sam is far more wiry and quick.  
He catches up to his brother easily, ducking and weaving through the cars even faster than Dean could follow with his eyes, if they weren't focused on the light above the back door, that is. Sam sidles up beside his brother, his shoes squelching and sucking in the mud beneath his feet, and sticks one foot out in front of Dean, who goes down in a flurry of hands and feet, green eyes wide. He snags Sam's pant leg just as his back meets the mud beneath him with a cringe-worthy _splat!_ and Sam is jerked down into the sludge beside him. Sam falls with his arms outstretched at either side of himself, and he somehow makes an even bigger splat than Dean did.  
In the moments afterward, they're both deathly silent and still. And then laughter bubbles up around them until it becomes nearly side-splitting. They're covered in filth and absolutely soaked, but they're both crowing with laughter where they lay, staring up into the sky as the rain pours down into their faces. Sam watches Dean raise a hand to wipe tears from his eyes and then realize said hand is covered in mud, so he wipes it on the front of his jeans, grinning like an idiot, and then uses it to rid the corners of his eyes of their tears. Rolling over onto one elbow and planting his other hand in the mud, palm down, he pushes himself onto his feet and stands. Finally, he offers Sam a grin and a hand up which Sam takes gladly and returns with a smile of his own.  
The two of them walk the rest of the way to the back door together, Dean's arm slung over Sam's shoulder and Sam tucked into his brother's side the way he belongs. They fit like a pair of puzzle pieces and can hardly bear to disengage from each other so they can go through the door. As soon as they're through, Dean's arm is back around him, and Sam feels warm all over, even as they navigate their way through the house to the kitchen. Where Bobby is already eating a piece of the little store-bought cake sitting on the kitchen table.  
Dean stops in his tracks and Sam feels him stiffen. Hurt and betrayal bleed out onto his face and he drops his arm from around Sam's shoulders in favor of pointing a finger at Bobby. "Bobby, man, what the heck?! We agreed to wait! I was supposed to have the first piece!"  
Sam scoffs next to him, "You didn't beat me."  
"Yeah, but I would've. If you hadn't pulled a kamikaze on me and got us both covered in mud." Dean waggles his eyebrows at Sam and Sam just can't stifle a laugh.  
"You two chuckle-heads are trackin' mud all through my house and you think I'm gonna let you have the first piece, Dean?" Bobby's voice is gruff, but there's a twinkle in his eyes as he forks another bite of cake into his mouth. Sam grins at him, resists the urge to scuff his feet for fear of getting even more mud everywhere. Dean is practically glowing beside him, his smile is so wide, and Sam's never thought his brother was more beautiful than in that moment.  
They go upstairs to change and get dry before coming back down to the first floor, all the while toweling up the mess they made as they were walking around, dripping and leaving muddy footprints on the floor. Bobby's got two slices of cake on the good china that his wife stored in the cabinet above the sink, grunts that it's a special occasion and waves off Sam's offer to wash dishes after they're all done eating. They stay up talking and laughing at the kitchen table until Sam's eyes start drooping and Dean can't stifle his yawns anymore and Bobby is huffing that he's getting too old for this every chance he gets.  
Finally, Sam gets into bed beside Dean, curling up next to his brother the way he hasn't in years and cradling the wrist with the leather cuff around it close to his chest, close to his heart. It really is the best birthday he's ever had. And it almost makes him forget about the fact that Dad never bothered to call even once.  


They leave Bobby's about a week later, piling their meager belongings into the Impala to the sound of breaking glass and Bobby's yelling voice. Sam closes his eyes and lets out a full body sigh before he gets into the back. Dean turns to glance back at him from where he sits in the passenger seat, concern bleeding out into the air around him. Sam just looks out the window to watch their father shoulder through the doorway, his face set into a mask of stone, and walk to the car. Bobby steps into the frame, his face lobster red and his eyes burning with a dangerous heat where they rest on the small of John's back.  
Sam watches the salvage yard disappear in the rear view the way he always does. But they don't ever come back to stay at Bobby's.  


After that, Dean starts hunting with Dad more frequently and Sam is left for months on end to fend for himself in the kind of dingy motel rooms he never could stand being alone in.  
He spends most of the holidays alone, but Dean and Dad are present for the Fourth of July, surprisingly, and the three of them eat their feast of bologna and cheese sandwiches in a relatively content atmosphere. Dean drops Dad off at a bar and takes Sam to go watch the fireworks. They sit on the hood of the impala, their heads craned back so they can watch the sky bloom with explosion after colorful explosion. Sam smiles all the way up until they have to go pick up Dad and Dean helps him stumble out and situate himself in the passenger seat. School starts up in August and Dean goes with him for a while, two weeks to scope out his new school and make sure Sam's safe there before Dad takes him away again. Halloween is a real treat; the day after he buys a bag of discount candy and stuffs himself full of cheap sweets, actually wishes Dean was there to pick through it first and steal all the good pieces. He's alone on Thanksgiving, too, and the only thing he eats the whole day is a slice of pumpkin pie at the diner across the street from the motel. He wakes early on Christmas morning and wants more than anything to hear the familiar growl of the Impala pulling into the parking lot outside. The silence is broken only by the little television's static-riddled marathon of A Christmas Story. He watches the ball drop in Time Square on the same little television a few days later, and he has no one to celebrate with then, either. Valentine's Day is a little better. He gets a card from a nerdy girl in his second period English class with a love poem scrawled inside. He's never exchanged a single word with this girl. And he doesn't get the chance. Because Dad and Dean come back for him the very next day. And as Sam is packing his things, he hesitates to throw the card in the trash like he knows he should and finally shoves it into his bag instead. He hasn't felt that wanted in a long time.  


They head to Nebraska, and for a while, Sam's not alone. Dad plasters the walls of their motel room with research, lays claim to the space by pinning his maps and graphs all over the walls. Dean sits on one of the two queen beds in the room and eats every bit of the leftover discount Christmas candy that Sam had saved for him, and he lays claim to the space with the growing pile of wrappers that's beginning to take form on the floor, all the while grinning at Sam like it's the best late Christmas present he's ever gotten. Sam feels so unbelievably safe, surrounded by the evidence of his family. But inevitably, John puts his foot down about the mess Dean's making and he's finally forced to clean up after himself. The maps come down about a week later. Sam sits stiffly on one bed and listens as Dean and Dad both slam their doors when they get into the Impala and the engine starts up with a snarl. The chugging growl as they drive away is still the most heartbreaking sound Sam's ever heard. Because it always means he's alone again.  


Easter Sunday passes as uneventfully as Sam imagined it would, and his only companion is vicious loneliness when his birthday rolls back around in May.  
In June, he finally finds occasion to use the razor Dean got him last year, but Dean's not there to help him and he ends up nicking the underside of his jaw pretty badly. He staunches the blood flow with a bit of toilet paper and runs his index finger absentmindedly over the markings etched into the band still around his wrist. It's become a habit over the last year he's spent alone. Anytime he thinks of Dean, he touches the leather cuff over his wrist. Reminds himself that Dean's there with him and he always will be.  
But it's another two weeks before Sam sees his brother again. And when he does, he wishes like hell that he hadn't.  


He's cooking popcorn in the motel room's cheap microwave plugged into the outlet by the window when he hears the telltale sound of the Impala outside. But it's hurried, like Dad's driving way too fast and the tires screech when he pulls into a space. Sam pulls open the curtains, eyes wide, and watches his father get out and hastily come around to the other side to open the rear door. John ducks his head inside, and then he's gripping something and pulling it out, and oh God, it's Dean.  
Sam is out the door in the next second, nearly tripping over his own feet in his race to get to his brother, who's covered in blood and leaning heavily on their father and looking like he's either about to puke or pass out or both.  
Sam helps Dad hold Dean up and guide him inside, his heart a leaden weight in his chest and his breath caught in his throat and his eyes burning with the threat of tears. Somehow, they get Dean to the bed closest to the door and then John is turning, ready to tell Sam to bring in the first aid kit, but Sam's already halfway to the door. When he reaches the Impala, he throws open the trunk and shoulders both Dad's bag and Dean's, slams the trunk closed and rushes back to the room like the car's on fire.  
Back inside, he plonks the bags onto the floor and then drops onto his knees to dig around in Dad's for the kit. He's back up like a shot when he finally finds it and hurries over to the bed to hand it to Dad, who's trying to staunch the bleeding with the white bed sheets. Sam watches those sheets stained crimson, stock-still and numb to everything around him except that color. It's beautiful and ugly and he wants to double over and empty his stomach of everything he had for breakfast that morning, but he can't move. He can't do anything but stare.  
And then John slaps him. Right in the face.  
Sam slams back down into his body with the stinging pain in his cheek and focuses all his attention on his father. His father who looks angry and tired and... scared. Who looks like he's been yelling at Sam for more than a few minutes now.  
"Bowl. Hot water. Towel. Go, Sammy." His voice is clipped, harsh, and Sam's sure he'll be reprimanded later for spacing out in such a dire time. Later. When Dean's stable.  
_Dean._  
Thinking of his brother, bleeding out on the white motel bed sheets beside him, is the thing that finally puts Sam into motion. He stumbles over to the cabinet under the microwave by the window to retrieve a bowl. His legs feel like they're going to give out on him as he heads to the bathroom to fill it with hot water and he shakes as he ducks down under the sink to grab a towel. By some miracle, he manages to make it back across the main room to John's side, where John tells him to leave the bowl on the bedside table and pulls the red-drenched sheets back from Dean's wound. Blood wells up immediately to the surface, and John tells him to get down and towel it up so he can get into the kit. Sam obeys, his hands shaking. Dean is barely conscious above him, his lids down low and his breathing shallow and erratic.  
Dad pulls Sam back once the blood's started clotting so he can pour alcohol down over the wound to cleanse it, and Dean hisses through his teeth, eyes squeezed shut tight from the searing pain as the wound on his side, directly over his ribs, starts to bubble and sizzle. John waits a few moments and then holds his hand out for the bloody towel Sam's wringing between his hands helplessly. Sam hands it over immediately, and stares down at the blood caked onto his fingers as John uses the cleaner end to wipe Dean's skin clean so he can commence stitching him back together. And when John starts in with the needle and thread, Sam lifts his eyes and makes himself watch the needle punch through Dean's flesh before John pulls the thread taut so the wound slowly begins to close up. It's a slow process, but finally Dean's wound has been stitched shut and John ties the thread at the very bottom in a tight knot before digging around in the kit for a big white bandage that he applies to the area directly over the wound that's been sewn up.  
Dean must've fallen asleep sometime as John was stitching, because he's out like a light now and there's no one to jump to Sam's rescue when Dad finally turns from Dean and fixes him with a furious glare the likes of which Sam's never seen. At least not directed at him. Dean's gotten that look plenty of times, but Sam thinks maybe before this he always seemed to young, too small a target for Dad to fix his sights on. But he's fuming now, and the fire in his eyes makes Sam want to run. But he just stands there, trying not to quiver the way that his body is demanding him to, his gaze locked with Dad's.  
Finally, John starts forward, and Sam falters, takes a step back. Dad's eyes narrow and he shoots a hand out in response, gripping the top of Sam's arm to be sure he can't get away. "What the hell was that just now, Sammy?"  
"I-I don't know, Dad, I-"  
"You can't freeze up like that when I need you. Do you understand me?" John is a hulking presence in front of him, massive and irate, his anger leeching out into the air so that it's hard for Sam to breathe. Or maybe that's the way Sam's throat has closed up. He's trying desperately to keep in the sob that's threatening to leap out and his eyes burn, but he won't let any tears well up. He juts out his chin, schools his expression into one of flint and stone. And his voice comes out even when he finally answers his father.  
"Yes, sir."  
And that's the moment Sam's childhood ends. As he's staring up into the face of his livid father in a shit motel that smells of nothing but his brother's blood and the stench of burnt popcorn.  
They manage to get Dean into the car in the morning and then they're back on the road, headed toward Colorado. Dean no doubt senses the new stiffness in the air between Sam and their father, and attempts to lighten everyone's spirits by joking about going rock climbing when they get there. They have to pull over onto the shoulder of the highway so Dad can fix a stitch Dean pops not even half an hour later. Sam is decidedly not laughing.  


The first hunt that Sam partakes in is a haunting in Colorado two weeks later. It's then that Dad teaches Sam that research is the most important preparation necessary before they put themselves under any supernatural entity's radar. Sam is sure that Mike Hoskins is a vengeful spirit murdering the men he employed at his garage who left him to be crushed to death beneath a car that had been lifted so he could work underneath. Sam is wrong, of course. Doesn't even consider that the wife has anything to do with his death. Turns out Mike was murdering the men his wife had cheated on him with, because the third person to die doesn't even work at the garage.  
Dad had put him in charge. And Sam had put an emphasis on the garage, so Dad and Dean hadn't gone to interview the wife.  
His mistake almost gets them killed when Mike finally pays a visit to his wife, the one who lowered the car and crushed him.  
John stays behind at the Hoskins' place to keep the wife safe and sends Dean and Sam back to the garage in the Impala. Dean keeps watch as Sam wiggles his way beneath the same car that Mike was crushed under. Sensing how close he is to having his revenge ripped from his clutches, Mike shows up. Dean tussles with the ghost as Sam searches for something that could be keeping the spirit anchored to the Earth. Dean is yelling that he's running out of salt rounds when Sam finally runs his hand over a jagged fragment lodged between some of the parts under the car. Sam rips the bone fragment free and a gush of fluid erupts from the hole and spills onto his face, makes him sputter and cough and squeeze his eyes shut. It seems to give Mike an idea; the ghost tips over a can of gasoline and the strong-smelling liquid quickly travels out across the concrete floor until it pools around Sam's form on the floor where he's desperately struggling to get out from under the car.  
Somehow, Sam gets the bone fragment to Dean just as Mike ignites the gas. Dean throws it in the fire and pulls Sam out by the tops of his arms, practically carries him out when the car catches fire. Mike's screams and the stink of the gasoline that's making the back of Sam's shirt cling to his skin are the only things that ground him in this moment and keep him from imagining the tongue-lashing from Dad he's in for. They barely make it out in time, barely out the door before they hear the explosion from the car fire.  
They run until they're sure they're far enough away that they can't be suspected of being the last people to come out of the now flaming garage and then Dean's hands are all over him, wrapping around and slipping under his wet shirt, checking for burns. Dean's eyes are frantic as they roam his face, and Sam's breath catches in his throat as Dean's fingers trail down his back to skirt his spine and snake over his hips. He feels his dick give an interested twitch and grits his teeth. "I'm fine, Dean."  
Dean takes his now gasoline-wet hands back, wiping them on the front of his jeans as he glares at Sam. His voice is harsh and reminds Sam of Dad. "You're never doing that again. Ever."  
"Dean, we had to act fast. I was the only one who could fit under that car and you know it. Dad would've made me go under if he thought-"  
"I don't give a damn what Dad would've done. _I'm_ telling you _now_ that you're not doing something like that again." Dean is a statue right now. He's made of marble, and Sam can tell he's not budging on this.  
Still, Sam huffs out a laugh, his eyes blown wide with surprise at how protective and commanding his brother's being. "Dean, I'm not a little kid anymore, man."  
Dean falters at that, his mask of stone slipping to reveal the jolt of hurt in those green eyes that Sam's words shock into him. Sam immediately regrets what he said, wants Dean to smirk and tell him Sam's always gonna be his kid brother or flick him in the forehead and say something dumb and vulgar, tell him he doesn't get to be a grown up till he's got some hair where it counts. But Dean just clams up. The mask goes back on and he turns from Sam to start back toward where they parked the Impala a few blocks down without another word.  
The drive back to the motel is in complete silence. Dean doesn't even turn on the radio and pop one of his tapes into the cassette player.  
When they finally make it back, Dad's in his face and yelling, just like Sam knew he'd be, as soon as Sam puts a foot in the doorway. But Dean surprises him when he jumps to Sam's defense immediately. Sam escapes to the bathroom with his bag to get a shower, wash off the smell of gasoline and change into some clean clothes. And by the time he gets back, Dean seems to have aired out the hostility in the room. And by that, Sam means Dad's nowhere in sight.  
"Hey," Sam mutters, his voice small.  
"Hey." Dean's smile is small and a little sad. "Dad went out. He just... gets a little stressed out sometimes, you know?"  
Sam nods even though he knows everything Dad was saying was true. It really was his fault that they almost botched this hunt. But he can't bring himself to start another argument or risk putting that hurt look from earlier back into Dean's eyes.  
Dean pats the mattress beside him and Sam goes. He sinks onto the bed beside his brother with a sigh and Dean's arm is immediately around his shoulders. Sam relaxes under his brother's comforting touch and sends a silent thank you up to whatever God was listening to his prayers about his earlier fuck up. It looks like Dean doesn't actually care that he's a self-proclaimed young adult after all.  
Sam leans into Dean's side and lets his eyes slip shut, just listens to Dean's breathing, feels his lungs fill and deflate. It's easy to fall asleep there, tucked into the warmth and safety of the greatest home he's ever known. Because he's come to realize that home's never really been a place; it could never be something so simple. Not for Sam Winchester.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam is sixteen. And the only reason he's awake right now is because of the almighty caffeine gods currently giving him the strength to stay up so he can finish this paper for English. Dean is passed out beside him, nodded off about an hour ago after promising Sam he'd stay up with him. Dad's a lump on the next bed over, snoring loudly and making it very hard for Sam to concentrate on analyzing the poem he was assigned in class. Sam's laptop casts a muted light in the darkness of the motel room as his fingers fly over the keys and he writes about "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," the longest poem that his English teacher had assigned anyone. He'd been impressed with Sam's writing skills since the day that Sam showed up one day out of the blue about two months ago, and he seemed to be pushing Sam harder than he ever pushed any of the other kids.  
Sam is just trying to get by, he doesn't mean to put himself under the radar, careful to heed Dad's warnings that they need to stay as incognito as possible. But when the first assignment he's given is to write a fictional vacation story, Sam uses his real life as a crutch, writes about how he and his brother and their father were in Georgia hunting a banshee who'd taken up residence in the Okefenokee swamp a few months back. He writes everything, puts it out on paper that everything that goes bump in the night is real. Hell, he even includes little details about how hot and humid it was in Waycross during the summer, adds his complaints that their motel room didn't have a working air conditioning unit. But he omits certain choice bits of information, like the way the swelter of the swamp made sweat slick Dean's skin so that his shirt stuck to him in all the right places while he busied himself with cleaning the guns and took to bitching about the heat. And the fact that Sam would need at least two extra hands to be able to count on his fingers the number of times he'd had to escape to the little bathroom of their shared motel room just to jerk off in the shower as he pictured licking up the delicate column of Dean's throat to taste the beads of sweat that rolled down the sides.  
_Fuck, he's getting hard just thinking about it._  
Grimacing as he reaches down to adjust himself, he looks over at Dean to be sure his brother's not awake. And finds Dean drooling. That shouldn't be a turn on, right? Well, his sleeping beauty of a brother chooses that moment exactly to rub the underside of his arm over the bottom half of his face to rid himself of a phantom itch. And smears his saliva so that his lips are shiny and spit-slicked.  
Sam actually prays for a fatal brain aneurysm. That way he doesn't have to look at his too-damn-beautiful brother and he can finally be sent down to Hell where he belongs.  
He huffs out a sigh as he slips his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers to grip his dick, which pulses thick and hard in his fist. Sam swallows and gives Dean's wet lips one last look before he turns his attention back to the computer in front of him. And pulls his hand back out of his pants. He's _got_ to finish this damn paper.  
By morning, Sam's eyelids are drooping. But he's finally got his final draft all typed up.  
Smiling a small, tired smile, he saves and closes his laptop to put it back into his bag and slides that back under the bed. He's just laid his head on the pillow when the alarm directly to the left of him begins to ring. Dean sits up next to him, rubbing at his eyes, and Dad is already on autopilot, swinging his legs out of bed to walk to the bathroom and take a piss.  
Sam thinks longingly of that aneurysm again. Right before Dean's whacking him in the head with a pillow, sing-songing _"Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey, Sammy boy~!"_  
As the morning commences, Sam learns that all of his effort is in danger of going to waste if he can't convince Dad to drop him by the school so he can give his teacher his final draft before they leave. Dad doesn't even tell him in advance when they're getting ready to pick up and get out of dodge anymore. Not since Sam told him he wasn't hunting when school started back up again.  
It's Dad's childish way of punishing him, Sam supposes.  
Miraculously this time, though, Dad drives him by the school. Also miraculously, Sam finds the set of double doors at the entrance unlocked. Maybe Mr. Bailey is there. Sam practically runs to the English classroom, clutching his laptop to his chest like it's made of gold.  
Mr. Bailey is just sitting a mug of coffee onto his desk when Sam bursts into the room, breathing hard and startling the man into jarring his mug over and spilling it onto the floor at his feet. Sam immediately feels awful. But some of that is lessened when the teacher offers him a warm smile, "Sam. What can I do for you this morning?"  
Sam shuffles forward into the room guiltily and comes to a stop in front of Mr. Bailey, cranes his neck back a little to look up at him. "I'm, uh. I'm moving, sir."  
Something comes into Mr. Bailey's eyes, something unlike anything anyone's ever looked at him with. It's not pity or disdain or even concern. It's understanding. "Ah. So you really weren't kidding when you wrote about moving around a lot in that story."  
Sam nods, his bangs flopping into his face, and offers the man a wry smile, "We're heading out today. I was just wondering if you'd give me your email address so I could email you my essay on that poem you assigned me in class."  
Mr. Bailey nods his head as he starts toward the big cabinet by the door and rattles off his email, makes sure to spell it for Sam as he's fishing out a roll of paper-towels to sop up his coffee mess. Mr. Bailey starts to wipe up the floor before Sam sends the email, and as the teacher gets behind his desk to log onto his desktop so he can check that he got it, Sam cleans up the rest of the mess for him.  
A few moments later, Mr. Bailey confirms that it reached him with no problems and gives Sam another smile, this one a little sad. But it's not laced with pity like the smiles so many other teachers have given him over the years. "Gonna miss you in class. You've got so much potential, Sam. Please do something with it."  
Sam's throat feels tight but he manages a nod and a stiff 'thank you' before he's out the door with his laptop again, walking back to the Impala.  
For the first time, he feels the bone-deep ache of a hope crushed before it even had a chance to start to grow.  
But he can't be sad for long. Not when Dean is there, turning in his seat to call Sam a teacher's pet and ruffle his hair. Not when Dad fingers the dial on the radio, and reluctantly turns up Bon Jovi's "Blaze of Glory" to Sam's pleas and Dean's loud disputation. Dean inherited his loathing for Bon Jovi from Dad, but they both endure their grudging hatred to listen as Sam belts out the lyrics to a song that came out when he was just seven years old.  
Sam's no one's son. He's a young gun.  
Dean mimes vomiting and pretends to cover his ears and John scoffs next to him and the two of them are gloriously oblivious to the fire of teenage rebellion that's started in Sam's heart.  
At least for another year.  


It becomes violently apparent when Sam starts arguing with Dad. About everything. About the diner they get breakfast from. About the motel they stay in. About the road they take to get there. About packing up and leaving when he finally makes more than three friends in Pennsylvania.  
Dean stopped trying to jump in and save him months ago, when he finally realized that Sam was just going to keep being belligerent and picking fights with Dad any chance he got. Just like now.  
Dad's asking to use Sam's laptop for research, yelling really, that that's what they bought the damn thing for, and Sam's arguing that it was supposed to be a birthday present and he needs it to finish typing a paper. Of course, said paper's not due for another two weeks, but Sam wants to be on top of everything in case Dad makes them uproot themselves early yet again. Realistically, Sam knows saving his progress so far and letting Dad borrow his laptop for a bit is no skin off his teeth. But he just can't be bothered to care.  
It's then that Dean slams open the door and stumbles in. He finally turned twenty-one about two months ago and he's been reaping the benefits as much as humanly possible without developing alcoholism ever since. Just. Not usually when Dad can see it. Because the one time that Dean came back to their motel room smelling heavily of sex and booze, with lipstick smudges all over his neck and a corrosive-to-the-nostrils perfume clinging to the front of his shirt, Dad was about an inch from beating some sense into his thick skull.  
It looks like Dean's fed up with their alpha male bullshit. He's drunk but Sam can tell that he's livid, an angry red high in his cheeks and his eyebrows down low over green eyes that are absolutely snapping. He saunters forward a bit unsteadily and Sam watches Dad meet him step for step until they're staring at each other, nose to nose. Sam can see Dad coiling to spring, preparing to explode.  
And then Dean rips the laptop viciously out of Dad's hands and hauls back and chucks it at the floor.  
The screen goes black and shatters on impact and Sam feels something inside of him burst.  
"I'm so tired of this shit. All you two ever do anymore is fight. What the fuck-" But Dean's slur is cut off by Dad's voice, pitched low and promising violence.  
_"You watch your tone with me, boy."_  
Sam can see Dean shrink back in the face of their father's wrath. It doesn't make him feel better, even if Dean just wrecked his computer and he's being reprimanded. If anything, it pisses Sam off even more. Because Dean's not being reprimanded for trashing Sam's laptop. He's being reprimanded for yanking it out of Dad's hands, for standing up to the man and his tyranny. And Sam just wants to step in to defend him, but then he remembers how much defending Dean's been doing for him lately. It's an asshole thing to do, but Sam watches stiffly as Dean gets Dad's glare for another minute before John is telling him to sleep in the tub tonight because he stinks like cheap beer and if John knows anyone's alcohol tolerance, it's his son's. He says he wants to avoid making the cleaning lady wipe up Dean's vomit at all costs. But Sam sees it as the punishment it is, and he's sure Dean does as well. But Dean doesn't argue. He walks to the bathroom and shuts the door softly behind him.  
And then John's eyes are sweeping over him once more, assessing Sam's expression to make observations. Finally, his father visibly deflates and Sam imagines the ruffled feathers of a hawk laying down once more. John merely nods at the computer on the floor, his mouth clammed shut, and then turns his back on his youngest son and lumbers over to his bed. Sam is left sighing as he bends down to pick up what's left of his beloved computer and sets it over by his bag in the floor, fingers caressing softly over its lid once he's closed it and put the poor thing to rest.  
He hears Dad's snoring start up only a few minutes later and makes his escape to the bathroom.  
Sam finds his brother laying in the tub, top half propped up by his arms dangling on either side of the edge of the tub going out from his body in the center, his head tipped back against the wall so that he can look up at a particularly menacing-looking water stain on the ceiling. He starts when Sam comes in, his head slowly turning so he can focus on the person who decided to disturb his metaphorical cleansing ritual. It's not the first time Dean's been forced to sit in a bathtub to sober up and rethink his choices.  
And it's not the first time Sam's walked in to check on him, either.  
But the air is different this time. Dean's never confronted Dad _and_ Sam at the same time before. And it scares Sam to think about how he could very well be just as accountable for Dean's spiral into hopelessness as Dad is. He swallows as Dean's alcohol-glazed eyes meet his and falters there in the doorway before he finally makes up his mind to face this, to face Dean and whatever demons have cropped up between the two of them, and closes the door behind himself, effectively shutting them in together.  
Dean goes back to gazing up at the water stain on the ceiling and Sam shuffles over to take a seat on the toilet's closed porcelain lid. It's cold against his ass, even through the hand-me-down jeans dangling from his slim hips. He can only imagine how icy the tub feels against Dean's bared skin, seeing as his jeans have been left in a messy pile beside the sink and the only thing he's got on below the waist are a pair of his preferred black boxer-briefs.  
"Sorry about your laptop." Dean's voice is small, and he's still not looking at Sam, but a grin spreads on Sam's face like it's Christmas and he's just gotten everything he's ever wanted.  
He wants to tell Dean that it's okay, that it wasn't Dean's fault, not really, but he can't figure out how to make his mouth work. They sit in silence for a few moments before Dean turns to look at him through those long lashes, trying to hide the vulnerability Sam can see just beneath the surface of the green pools of his eyes. "Dude, say something."  
Sam opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. _"I'mtheonewho'ssorry,"_ leaves him in a rush and Dean gives him the most puzzled look Sam's ever seen on that face. Like Sam's an enigma Dean can't ever fathom understanding. It makes Sam sad, because he remembers them back when they were young, back when Sam was an open book for his brother and all Dean had to do was look at him to know exactly what was going on in his head. When did Sam start letting all of the tension between them start obscuring Dean's vision like this? He clears his throat and attempts to elaborate for his blinded brother, "I know things haven't really been the greatest between us lately. Dad and I butt heads more than any two people I've ever seen. I'm... I'm trying to figure out who I want to grow up to be, Dean. I'm seventeen years old and I'm a senior in high school." Dean flinches and Sam pauses, remembers how Dean flunked out in his senior year and didn't get to graduate. "I'm supposed to be taking the ACT this year, man. While kids my age are thinking about college, I'm thinking about black dogs in the Mississippi River Valley."  
Dean looks a little stunned by Sam's words, his alcohol-fuddled mind probably struggling to put a response together, but he finally gets out, "You can't be serious, Sammy. You don't wanna be normal."  
"Maybe I... Maybe I do, Dean." Sam makes himself say it. Makes himself say it and look at Dean and will himself to stop wanting the one thing he can never have. He can trade one dream for another. He can leave Dean in two years to go to college, he tells himself, he can forget about the feelings he has for his brother. He can. But even as he tries to convince himself of the fact, Dean is looking at him like he's just been shot and Sam can't stand thinking about what it would do to Dean if he actually left.  
"What are you gonna do?" Dean whispers, and he looks so young then, pretty green eyes wide and full of an almost child-like ignorance and fear with the alcohol still affecting his reactions.  
Knowing full well that he shouldn't spring this kind of crap on his inebriated brother, Sam sighs and attempts to pacify Dean's fears, "It's just some dumb dream, Dean. It won't come true. There's no point in even considering that. I'm not going anywhere." But he knows he's damning himself even further with every word that leaves his mouth. By reassuring Dean that he's not actually all that serious about leaving for college, he's inviting heartache in the near future. He's inviting pain and hurt and Dean's hate if he goes through with it in the end. He's inviting the hell fire that laps at his heels by reassuring Dean that he'll always be there and putting hope into those green eyes. His self-destructive nature wants to tip its head back and laugh. And his self-loathing is at an all time high. Because he resents Dean for the hope that springs into his eyes just as much as he loves how tight he's got Dean wrapped around his finger, willing to do anything to keep Sam close.  
He's so selfish it makes him sick. And any way you look at it, he's selfish, really. By going, he'd be breaking Dean's heart and leaving him all alone to brave Dad's obsessed quest all by himself. And by staying, he'd be giving in to that sickening desperation to be as close to his brother as he possibly can.  
He really can't win, no matter what he chooses.  
But for now he picks Dean. He smiles and climbs into the tub beside his brother, trying to fold in the long limbs he's just started growing into and tucking himself in against Dean's side the way he hasn't in years. He falls asleep almost instantly with Dean's grumbled complaints in his ear _("Gettin' too damn big to still be doin' this shit, Sammy")_ , swears he feels lips brush his temple just before his eyes slip closed, can't remember feeling this safe and warm and wanted for a long time.  
When Dean wakes him in the morning by drenching him in ice cold water, Sam is resigned to sending nothing but silent, scathing looks back at every shit-eating grin Dean shoots him for the whole day. But he's in a much better mood than he was yesterday, even with his impromptu wake-up call. And he takes special care to avoid most, if not all, arguments with Dad for the next three weeks at least.  
He hasn't seen Dean smile that much in what feels like years.  
But it doesn't last. It never lasts for the Winchesters.  


They're on what's supposed to be a weekend long hunt in Wyoming when Sam goes down and Dean absolutely loses his shit. With vicious precision, he takes out the full-grown mountain troll that knocked Sam into a tree and left him limp and unconscious. Or Sam imagines that's what happens when he wakes three days later, in a hospital bed with Dean staring down at him like he's seeing one of God's miracles unfold right in front of him, but it's just Sam, blinking his eyes open and sputtering around the tube shoved down his throat. Dean pages Sam's nurse, a pretty blond named Kate, to make sure Sam doesn't hurt himself. The tube is removed about half an hour later and Dean nods the medical staff off so he can talk to Sam in private.  
"What happened?" Sam's voice is hoarse to his own ears and he's just noticed the disgusting taste in his mouth. Dean's reading him even before he reaches for the styrofoam cup on the cabinet by his bed and puts it in Sam's hand with a good-natured flash of a smile.  
"What do you remember?"  
"Hunt. Troll. Flung. Tree." Sam is gulping down water like nobody's business, and he empties the cup in seconds. Dean accepts it from him and leaves the room for a few seconds, presumably to refill Sam's cup with water from the fountain that must be just outside. Sam takes note of how reluctantly Dean abandons his side, but then he's back and sliding the cup into Sam's waiting hand before sinking back down into his chair.  
"Yeah. The troll threw you and you hit the tree. Hard, Sammy. As in, hard enough to fracture two of your ribs and puncture a lung." Sam's throat feels tight as a vise and his eyes feel like they've widened to the size of dinner plates. Suddenly, he's all of six years old in this hospital bed as his brother tells him exactly how he got there. "I managed to take the troll out by myself, but that left the third one still alive. That's where Dad is right now, tying up that last loose end while we waited for you to wake up. The doctors are saying that the puncture's not bad at all; the tissue should heal up on its own as long as you don't do anything too strenuous. And the ribs are gonna be fine. I've busted mine up plenty of times and I'm still okay, right?"  
Sam is nodding his head before he even realizes he's doing it. He wants to be embarrassed because he's seventeen years old and it still only takes just a few reassuring words from his big brother for his whole world to right itself again, but the truth is that he just can't. He's lived his whole life with Dean's hand as a comforting weight on his shoulder, grounding him, anchoring him when he feels dangerously close to floating away. And that hasn't changed. He offers Dean a wan smile when his chest twinges a bit, and closes his eyes as he lays back against the pillows. "I can't believe you let a troll send me to the hospital."  
Dean's silent and Sam's eyes flutter back open after a few moments of that silence, concerned because he's expecting one of Dean's ribbing jibe's ( _"Hey, at least it wasn't a dwarf, right, Snow White?"_ ). What he gets is Dean's snapping green gaze, a dangerous fury swimming just beneath the cool exterior. Sam shrinks back against the pillows on his hospital cot, fearing the wrath that those eyes promise. But then Dean speaks and Sam realizes it's not directed at him at all. "I'd like to kill that fucker twice."  
_The troll. Dean is talking about the troll that hurt Sam._  
Sam's heart thumps against his ribs and he swallows thickly, overcome with emotion. Dean's always been overprotective of him. But never like this. He's never seen that deadly violence on his brother's face before. Dean's threatened to kick bullies' asses before; Sam's seen that kind of anger. But it seems like Sam almost dying warrants something different than simply being picked on in class. Because this? This is pure, unbottled rage Sam's seeing. This is Dean white knuckling his grip on the sawed-off in his lap beneath Dad's old leather jacket. This is Dean's jaw ticking because he's gritting his teeth so hard he can probably taste the coppery tang of blood. This is Dean when killing the thing that almost killed Sam isn't enough.  
It scares Sam. This feral side of his brother that he's never seen before.  
But it also makes Sam's heart soar in his chest. It makes tears spring into his eyes and his whole body quiver with the need to touch, to reach over and grip Dean's hand, lace their fingers together and tell him it's okay, Sam's okay, he's alive. It makes his heart rate race till his pulse is speeding so fast that the machines connected to Sam seem like they're going haywire and Dean freaks and calls a nurse to sedate him. Because Dean doesn't know that the tears trailing down his cheeks and the pained look of longing on his face aren't actually because of any physical distress.  
Sam endures the shitty hospital food and Dean hovering over him like a mother hen for two more days before he's finally released from the hospital with a stern "take it easy, young man" and an anti-inflammatory prescription from his doctor. Dean's never looked more relieved in his life as he wheels Sam out to the parking lot and helps him into the Impala, despite Sam's many attempts at waving him off. Dad turns and offers him an eye roll and Sam returns it with one of his own that Dean actually catches when he slides into the passenger seat beside Dad. Sam can tell Dean has a hard time restraining himself from reaching back and punching Sam's arm in retaliation. Sam just smirks at his brother in the rear view mirror the whole way out of the hospital's parking lot, and Dean's eyes glint with mischief and the promise that Sam will get his soon enough. Sam grins because he really missed this. Missed being able to communicate with his brother wordlessly the way they used to.  
He feels Dean's smile on him in the rear view before he sees it. And it's like these last few years that have pushed them apart never even happened, like they're just Dean's grease-stained napkins on the dash that get caught in the wind coming through the Impala's open windows and blow out onto the highway behind them. Dean still gets the typical earful from Dad about picking up after himself and then comes his innocent, "What napkins?"  
And it's just cheeky enough to warrant a wry smile from Dad and a low chuckle every time.  
The miles roll out behind them.  


Sam's ribs heal up and his lung is back to full and functional in no time with a little TLC. The first few weeks are heaven with Dean voluntarily waiting on him hand and foot, but Sam gets restless pretty quick when Dad and Dean finally leave him on his own to go off in search of hunts close by. He doesn't know how he survives the next six, idle months of solitude, definitely doesn't remember it being this hard back before he'd never gone hunting. He doesn't like not being out there with Dean, doesn't like not knowing where he is, if he's okay.  
Sam texts often, just to check in. But Dean's always been bad at that sort of thing, so it's always a while before he gets a reply and those are always very general and mono-syllabic, so usually Sam just lays up on the couch like a good boy and tries not to worry about his beautiful brother out there without Sam as backup. Finally going back to school in the fall helps him get his mind off of it, though.  
A free ACT test is given out in October at the school and Sam has a little trouble picking which colleges to send his results to. He finally decides on Penn State, thinking of all the friends he made in Pennsylvania, Stanford University in California, the one state they'd never really hunted in, and the University of South Dakota because of Bobby. He realizes he needs an address to send scores to and puts down Bobby's there, makes a note to call Bobby and warn him. And then he breezes through the test as easy as pie. He honestly can't believe it's supposed to be a college-entrance exam.  
Bobby's happy to hear from him that night, and seemingly even happier to hear Sam talking seriously about going to college. He asks what John thinks. And Sam breaks down on the phone and completely freaks out Bobby with his sobbing and crying. When Bobby's finally got him to calm down a little, till he's just a sniffling mess of snot with tear tracks drying on his cheeks, Sam finally tells Bobby no one knows but him. And they can't know. Neither of them. And when Bobby readily agrees, Sam can hear the sad truth in the man's voice: Sam is seventeen years old and can turn to no one about this but him. He's not supposed to have a normal life. He's not supposed to go off to college. He's supposed to isolate himself from people until he's disgustingly obsessed with his older brother and then he's supposed to die young because that's just the job.  
He ends the call on a good note, tells Bobby he wrote in to have a copy of his scores sent to the University of South Dakota. Bobby is grateful for the abrupt lightening of mood and shows Sam as much, chuckling out a surprised laugh and then letting Sam know he'd be happy to help Sam out with anything he might need if he ended up coming to South Dakota for college. Sam smiles but it's a small thing. Thanks Bobby. Hangs up. Pockets his phone. Curls up on the lone motel bed. Cries himself to sleep.  
He spends two more weeks in that cramped little room before Dean and Dad come to rescue him.  
Sam's never been so happy to leave anywhere.  


They spend the winter in Michigan, one of Dad's old friends calls and asks them to take out a nest of boggarts living in a house that's about to go on the market. They squat in the house. Long story short, Sam finds he hates boggarts. And he still never finds his socks. But he can't complain too much, he supposes. At least he only loses socks. One of the boggarts steals the amulet right from around Dean's neck and Dean is livid for about a week till they exterminate all of the pests and he finds it in a pile of trinkets they'd collected in one of the walls. Sam doesn't know which of them breathes the bigger sigh of relief when Dean finally slips the cord back over his head and the horned-head comes to rest against his chest again.  


When Spring comes, they're in West Virginia. Young children have been going missing and they're all three of them stumped as to what it could possibly be until they start looking more into changeling lore and find wood-inhabiting creatures called Moss Folk are the culprits. Since they're tied to the trees, they've got to cut down practically half a forest before the whole tribe of them is dead. They find the missing kids all shivering and huddled together in a cave deep in the forest and lead them to safety. And then as soon as they've finished the hunt, Dean is practically begging Dad to go up to Point Pleasant in the hopes that they'll see the famed Mothman. Dad reluctantly obliges Dean for his birthday and Sam even buys him a t-shirt and a button for his bag from the Mothman Museum with what little money he'd saved up working odd jobs and mowing lawns last summer. Dean's still beaming even as they get back out onto the highway without seeing a damn sign of any mutated, half-man, half-moth creature.  
And Sam is beside himself with how much he just wants to lean forward in his seat and kiss the stupid smile right off of Dean's face when he slips the Mothman shirt over his head and turns in his seat to waggle his eyebrows at Sam.  
Instead of course, Sam just rolls his eyes with an indulgent laugh and returns to staring back out the window, watching the rolling hills of the mountain state shrink and then finally disappear in the Impala's wake.  


Four months and three states later, Sam is celebrating his own birthday, turning eighteen. There's no cake, no presents, no party. But Sam feels Dean watching him, feels Dean's eyes on him as his fingers trace over the markings on the worn leather cuff still around his wrist four years later.  
Dad clearly has no idea what day it is, and neither of them remind him.  
They finish the routine salt and burn and wrap up yet another hunt. Pull into the parking lot of a cheap motel in the middle of Bumfuck, Oklahoma just for the night. Dad leaves them to get the bags inside, yawning unapologetically as he lets himself into their room. Sam shakes his head as he pops the trunk and reaches in to grab two of their three big duffels. He's shivering in the cold of the night, wearing only a pair of his threadbare jeans and a faded gray t-shirt, and all he wants to do is get inside where it's warm and he can just curl up and forget today even happened. And that's when Dean blankets him from behind.  
Sam's breath catches in his throat, his heart suddenly thundering against his ribs. Dean is pressed up close behind him, Dean's hot breath against the back of his neck, the tip of Dean's nose tickling over his nape. Sam feels like he's about to faint. And then Dean's arms come around him. And for some reason he's suddenly crying, fat tears welling up in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks. Dean holds him there for what feels like hours, a sad parody of what Sam once looked like when he used to wrap skinny, little boy arms around his brother's waist and hang on like Dean was about to float away. And that's when Sam realizes that's exactly what his brother's doing.  
Because he suddenly can't remember when he got so tall and sprouted up and past his older brother. He can't remember his shoulders being this wide or his arms being this long and starting to bulge with muscle mass from their rigorous workouts. He can't remember his face starting to lose its childish chubbiness and developing the high cheek bones and the cleft in his chin. He can't remember looking in the mirror and thinking that the only remnant of innocence on his hardened-with-age face are the dimples when he smiles. He can't remember when his voice lost its little boy softness and became the rich, masculine resonance that emanates from his throat when he closes his eyes and whispers, "Dean."  
But he knows Dean remembers. He knows Dean's been watching him grow into the man Sam's still reluctant to call himself. He knows how much Dean cares about his birthdays, how much this eighteenth one no doubt means to him. Because now Dean's kid brother is dead and buried. And this Sam is all that's left of him.  
"Sammy." Dean's voice is barely a whisper. But Sam still hears that childhood nickname. And it speaks volumes, makes the sob that tries to come up stick in Sam's throat until he's almost choking on it. But he can't let the silence ruin this tender moment between them. He can't let Dean mistake it for some kind of dismissal and go back inside so he can just act like this never happened. He can't.  
"I'm here," he rasps, and then he's dropping the bags back into the trunk and curling his fingers over Dean's arms, prying them from his waist. He feels Dean so vulnerable in this moment, feels Dean as a rigid line against his back, feels a wetness on the nape of his neck and knows Dean's tears are soaking into his skin. He turns his brother in his arms until Dean's ass is against the tail end of the Impala, until he's practically sitting in the open trunk. And then Sam hugs Dean to his chest, as tight as he can, willing him to be absorbed into his skin.  
They stay like that even longer than Dean had stood hugging him from behind. And then when Sam finally pulls back, he makes Dean look up at him, curls his fingers around Dean's chin and tips his face up so Sam can look into his eyes. They're shining bright with tears in the muted gray light from the sliver of a moon illuminating the parking lot around them, and they're so unguarded that it makes Sam falter where he stands, makes him want to take a step back to reevaluate everything that he's ever felt about his brother. Because there's such infinite sadness there in those eyes when Dean looks at him.  
There's such infinite sadness, and it can't just be because Sam's growing up. It can't.  
_Can it?_  
"I'm here, Dean. You got me. You always got me." He echoes the same words Dean once said to him in the spare bedroom they shared at Bobby's back when he was just a thirteen year old kid, and he doesn't know when he raised his hand to cup Dean's cheek, but his thumb is stroking through the tear tracks there now. Dean is looking up at him like Sam is something sacred. And it's the easiest thing in the world for Sam to just lean in and cover his beautiful brother's lips with his own, crush their mouths together and blanket Dean's body with his.  
For one, unbelievable second, he feels whole. And then Dean's hands are on his chest, shoving him back. A fist connects with his cheek and pain blooms bright and white-hot through the whole left side of his face. He stumbles back, clutching where Dean just struck him. His wide eyes meet Dean's and there's nothing of the worship Sam saw in them before. That's been replaced with hurt and confusion and something that looks a lot like indignation. Dean wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket, of Dad's jacket, and Sam doesn't know why his mind jumps up to point out that particular, seemingly insignificant detail, but Sam knows it's important. Somehow.  
"What the fuck, Sam?!" Dean spits.  
Sam has lost his voice. Sam stares, struck dumb as his brother stares right back at him, waiting for a response.  
Sam has soon been quiet for far too long. Sam stares, still struck dumb as his brother finally gives up on getting that response and turns to get the bags. He slams the trunk and Sam watches Dean's back as he marches to their motel room, fumbles with the spare room key Dad tossed him as they left the reception desk, and shoulders his way inside, the door clicking closed behind him.  
The barrier is broken as soon as Dean is behind that door. And then Sam is washed in an all-consuming wave of self-hatred. A self-deprecating smile pulls up the corners of his lips as he notes how deliberately Dean's left Sam's bag in the trunk. He tugs it out halfheartedly and crawls into the backseat of the Impala to sleep, using his duffel as a pillow.  
He's eighteen years old. And he's just ruined everything good in his world.  
_Happy birthday, dear Sammy. Happy birthday to you._  


The next morning, Dean acts like nothing happened. Just like Sam knew he would.  
He clearly hasn't said a word about it to Dad, because Dad's not spitting fury and fire down on him when he wakes and the man is genuinely surprised to find him asleep in the back of the car. Sam waves him off, says he's just getting too big to keep sharing a bed with Dean and the motel looked kind of iffy at best anyway. True facts.  
They're back on the road before Sam finds an opportunity to get Dean alone and apologize. He watches the Oklahoma countryside bleed into Texas and wishes he'd never been born.  


A month and a half, two dead werewolves, one high school graduation, and a salt and burn later, they run into some of Dad's hunting buddies in a bar.  
The three hulking figures that saunter into the place like they own it would usually have Sam sitting up straighter in his seat, eyes focused and attentive, because in his experience, people who look like that are almost always trouble. But Sam's attention is, of course, otherwise occupied at the time.  
When Daniel Turnsdale and his two good buddies stroll up to their table just to call Dad an old man, Sam is watching Dean making out with a handsy blond in one darkened corner of the bar. Dean keeps meeting his gaze between kisses, and for the last twenty minutes, Sam's been trying desperately to hold down the greasy burger and fries he had at the little diner about forty miles back. Honestly, Sam would rather endure Dean's usual punishment than this kind of torture. Because in his opinion, Dean not looking at him at all is nothing compared to Dean deliberately seeking him out in an attempt to hurt him.  
They haven't exchanged more than maybe three words since the night that Sam kissed him. Even after Dad changed their rooming habits after that night, getting one room with a king for himself and one with two queens for his sons. Sam regrets complaining now, regrets it because Dad hadn't been there to ease some of the tension in that room. That room that was always silent. Sam only tried talking to his brother once, and regretted it immediately because Dean had just looked at him before turning and heading to the bathroom. Sam remembers thinking of how childish it was, but that's not entirely true either; Dean hadn't actually slammed that door behind him. But he had almost gotten their asses handed to them on the last hunt, even though it was just the typical haunting, just because he refused to communicate with Sam. Sam managed to skip out on the werewolves in the haze of graduation, but he suspects Dean almost argued against working with him at all when Sam rejoined them. But Dean never argues with Dad, and Sam's pretty sure that's the only reason he didn't end up on bitch detail, doing all the research and going out to get dinner every night.  
So, they don't talk. They don't even look at each other anymore. And Dean doesn't stand close to him if he can help it.  
Daniel's big, booming voice jerks him out of his thoughts and he averts his eyes from Dean having his mouth ravaged by Handsy over in the corner to finally pay some attention to the conversation going on in front of him. "So, you think you and your boys are game for a hunt in New Mexico?"  
John's eyes are gleaming and a smirk curls his lips suddenly. It's in this moment that Sam always thinks that his father resembles some sort of coonhound, visibly perking up and becoming more attentive when he catches wind of a hunt. "Depends on what we're lookin' at, Dan."  
"Try goat and sheep slaughter. Evidence that the blood was drained right out of the animals while they were still living." Dan's big, dopey, brown eyes are bright with excitement and Sam has to wonder why he and Noah and Jim over there don't just take the hunt themselves.  
"Sounds like a chupacabra."  
Dan's nodding before the whole word's even out of Dad's mouth, "That's what we were thinkin' ourselves. And in New Mexico? What in the hell else could it be?"  
Dad nods and starts asking about the location, but Sam's attention is stolen once more when Dean comes up beside him, pulling the chair by Sam's side over to Dad's side of the table, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. He sits down and inserts himself into the conversation almost obtrusively, makes it physically impossible for Sam to ignore him. Sam has to listen to every word as Dean brags to the boys about how some girl who didn't even know his name just had her hands all over him. At least until Dad tells him to get his head in gear, that they might've just found a job. And then Dean's doing what Sam couldn't, sitting up straighter and focusing all his attention on Dad as he's filled in.  
Sam is glad for it. A hunt means less abuse sent his way because Dean will be too busy acting like he doesn't exist again.  
Or at least, that's what he tells himself as they head out toward New Mexico straight out of the bar. They drive until Dad gets tired, and then he pulls over onto the shoulder so Dean can take his place.  


When they finally cross the state border, Dean is wearing thin, and he drives just long enough to find them a motel for the night. Sam's kept a silent vigil in the backseat behind his brother, and he's wide awake now, maybe even more so than usual, because there's a war going on in his head. Dean is tired. Off-guard. This is the best opportunity Sam's had yet to fix the wound that's been torn open between them. But he's worried that he'll only be rubbing salt in it.  
Still, Sam pretends he's asleep when Dean goes to get their rooms and keys, leaves the car idling out in the parking lot with the heater on for Dad, who's snoring in the passenger seat. He gets back five minutes later, and Sam hears him grab Dad's bag out of the trunk before he wakes the man and guides him to his room. Sam doesn't hear him get back. He almost starts when the door beside him opens and cold air rushes in, and then Dean's reaching in for him. Dean's arms squirm under him, lift him up, and then Dean's struggling hard not to drop him and Sam is forced to resist every firing nerve ending in himself to stay limp instead of wrapping his arms around Dean's neck.  
Dean's chest is warm against his side, and it's really the only thing that saves Sam from reaching down and shoving his shirt back down when it rucks up to his navel and the cold air rushes down to kiss his skin. Dean's breath is hot against his neck as he ducks his head and struggles forward, toward their room, the muscles of his arms flexing under Sam with each step.  
"Gonna put you on a diet, kid," Dean grits out, struggling to keep Sam in his arms as he fumbles with the key. But finally, the door clicks open and Dean stumbles in, headed straight for the first bed in the room. And that's where he unceremoniously drops Sam, the fall to the mattress jostling his eyes wide open.  
For a brief moment, Sam sees shock and dismay on Dean's face, like he's upset he "woke" Sam. And then that cold discourtesy is back and Dean is turning for the bathroom without a word.  
Sam is startled into action, jumping up out of the bed and reaching for Dean's shoulder. The tips of his fingers just graze the leather jacket and then Dean's turning again, his fist flying out. But Sam expected him to react like this, really- Dean usually gets belligerent when he's backed into a corner. Sam ducks the punch, rolls forward on the balls of his feet, aiming a punch of his own at Dean's gut, but then Dean's got his hands in Sam's long hair, pulling him back. Sam barely manages to stifle a yell, more surprised than hurt, really. Because Dean doesn't pull hair. That's a chick thing. He's heard those exact words come out of his brother's mouth more than once, actually.  
He glares up at Dean, his hair still clenched in Dean's fist. "What the hell, man?"  
"I don't have to fight fair with you anymore." Dean's voice is full of malice, and Sam has to pretend that it doesn't hurt more than the hand jerking his head back. "You're no brother of mine."  
"Dean, I'm sorry, I-" But then Dean's shoving him away, lips curled into a disgusted snarl. He strides into the bathroom and slams the door between them. The shower comes on. And it stays on. For hours. Sam counts the minutes as he sits there, in the floor, where Dean left him. But finally, Dean reemerges, steam billowing out as the door clicks open and he steps out, clad in only a towel. Sam somehow manages to keep his eyes down while he listens to Dean getting dressed. He doesn't move from his place in the floor, even when Dean walks across the room to turn the light off and then gets into bed.  
Half an hour passes, and he's still staring up at the ceiling in the darkness when a whisper penetrates the black silence.  
"Sammy."  
His breath catches in his throat.  
"Sammy, I didn't mean it."  
All of the tension leaves Sam in that instant and he breathes out, "I know, Dean. I know."  
Dean doesn't reply. But Sam falls asleep there, in the floor, hope fluttering in his heart.  


And if Dean's not exactly warm towards Sam the next day, he's not cold, either. On their way to the first farm affected by the chupacabra, they stop at an ihop to get breakfast. And Dean even steals a few blueberries from the top of his stack of pancakes.  
Sam feels like he hasn't taken a full breath since that night that he almost ruined them, but his lungs are working at full capacity now. He even manages a smile at Dean from across the table. And even though Dean feigns nonchalance, Sam can feel him trying not to smile back as he pops another of Sam's blueberries into his mouth.  
They're back to brothers by the end of the week, back to Dean grinning at Sam and jostling their shoulders together as they're both grabbing things from the trunk and preparing to go after this chupacabra. It was almost too easy for Dad to pinpoint the thing's hunting radius, and they're 99.9% positive it's going to show at the Griggs' farm tonight, so they're getting ready for the fight. Dad's told them all they need to know about the creature, stressed that it's going to be small and incredibly fast, so they have to be quick with their wooden stakes.  


It turns out that Dad's words don't prepare them at all for what they find that night.  


By the time they're all set, it's so pitch-black outside that Sam can barely see Dean beside him where they're hiding in the bushes. They've masked their scent with the goats', and Sam's not too happy that he doesn't even have Dean's familiar smell to comfort him in this dark. He's got a bad feeling about this hunt, and the only thing that makes him feel slightly better is the knowledge that Dad's across the field, hiding behind some bushes of his own. Sam can't see him, but he knows the sensation of Dad's eyes, knows the man's peering out to make sure his sons are in position.  
Sam can feel Dean buzzing with excitement at his side, every fiber of him alight with adrenaline and anticipation. And to drive the point home, Dean can't seem to sit still either; he keeps fidgeting where he's crouched like there are things crawling around in his jeans. Sam is the exact opposite of his brother. He's been sitting still for so long that it feels like his joints have locked in place, his knees numb from the icy damp of the grass soaking into his jeans where he kneels beside Dean. So far the only thing that's kept him from reaching out and punching Dean's arm in the hopes that Dean will get the message that he should stop moving around so much is the flock of sheep in the field between them and Dad, their noises masking any slight sound of Dean's movement.  
He's relieved when they start getting even louder, all the better to cover the fidgeting, but then he realizes that Dean's gone still as a statue beside him. He looks over at his brother, concerned, and then follows the muted points of Dean's jaw and chin and looks out across the field.  
The sheep are all huddling together, growing more and more frightened. There's something out in the dark, and they can sense it. Sam's heartbeat quickens, thudding against his ribs, and he feels a sudden urge to reach out and get his arms around Dean, to protect and be protected. He's never felt this sense of dread in all of his eighteen years.  
And then it steps out from the trees. And starts across the field.  
It walks like a man. But it doesn't. There's something distinctively predatory in its movements as it stalks toward the flock, too stupid and scared to move away.  
It's tall. Taller than Sam, and that's saying something. Dad told them that it would be small. Small and fast.  
_But it's not. It's not, it's not._  
It picks up the smallest sheep with one arm and the poor thing's too petrified to let out a scream. She pisses, though. Sam hears the stream of urine hit the ground. And then he watches the thing in front of him raise the little sheep to its mouth, tear into her jugular with its teeth. Sam hears the crunch of bone and the patter of blood on the ground and he almost throws up, but somehow manages to swallow down the bile that's suddenly flooded his throat. Dad is deathly quiet across the field as the three of them watch silently while the sheep are slaughtered, one by one, and Sam's never been this certain of anything in his life. What he's staring at isn't a chupacabra.  
It starts a low fire. Right in the middle of all the sheep carcasses.  
And that's when Sam finally sees it clearly. It has long, lean legs and it's as naked as the day it was born, its sex dangling between those legs that lead up to a torso bulging with muscle and long arms that hang at its sides. It has the head of a dog. Or Sam thinks that it does, until he realizes that it's just a skin. Just a mask. It wears a mask.  
It's human.  
_But it's not. It's not, it's not._  
The night is silent as death, no bugs, no bats, just the crackling of the fire in front of them.  
And then it tips its head back and lets out a haunting, low howl. The voice carries no human influence, even as it crouches down in front of the fire and begins chanting. It drags the littlest sheep carcass closer, dips its hands in the blood still trickling from the wound on its neck to rub that crimson over its chest like war paint while it mutters things that Sam has no hope of ever comprehending. And then settles down in front of the fire, crosses its legs like any other man, and pulls the carcass into its lap to eat.  
And it's insatiable; Sam watches it tear through three of the sheep before Dad finally decides to act.  
He slowly gets to his feet behind the bushes and comes around the front, holding his stake out in front of him like a sword. He gets maybe two feet and then the thing turns.  
And Sam sees its eyes gleam yellow in the firelight.  
But it's not looking at John. It's looking right at him.  
Its blood-smeared lips pull back from its teeth and it grins at him. Wolfish.  
Sam blinks and it's there. Right in front of him. Still grinning that bloody grin, its yellow eyes laughing.  
Dean strikes out with his stake and the thing catches it, lightning fast. Snaps the stake in its big hand like it's a twig. Its eyes don't leave Sam. That grin never vanishes from its face.  
Sam stares up at it and feels piss soaking his jeans.  
That grin only widens.  
Dean lashes out again, a fist. A mistake. It catches Dean's arm and Sam hears the sickening snap of bone and then Dean's being tossed away as easily as any ragdoll. It's then that John tries to bring it down from behind, but it turns and catches the stake before it even grazes flesh.  
Sam's larger-than-life father looks so small next to something like this.  
He looks even smaller when the thing takes a step forward, gets right up in his space. John stares up at it and Sam can see him quivering. Dad. His dad. The man who fears nothing.  
It picks John up and flings him halfway across the field, where he lays, motionless.  
And then it turns back to Sam.  
And it's still grinning.  
Sam remembers how it killed the obviously youngest sheep first, wonders if that's what it's planning on doing now, wonders if it will eat his flesh the way it ate that little sheep's, pull his dead body into it's lap and rip him open with its bare hands, stuff its mouth with his intestines.  
Fuck, he wants to run, he wills himself to get up and run. But he's frozen in this thing's sights.  
And then he hears Dean's weak rasp, _"Run, Sammy. Sammy, get up. Get up and run."_  
Sam is up and off like a shot. The adrenaline coursing through his veins gets him halfway to the little dirt road that they hiked to get here before the thing catches up to him, grabbing at the back of his jacket. Sam wants to scream but nothing comes out as the thing spins him around, gets a hand around Sam's throat, lifts him into the air.  
He doesn't know how he managed to keep hold of it the whole time he was running, but he drops the stake in his hand now. It falls to the ground at the man-wolf's feet with a heartbreaking clatter.  
And then Sam feels a hand punch through his chest and out the other side, easy as a knife through butter.  
His breath leaves him like he's been punched in the gut and then he's coughing up blood, specks of it flecking the man-wolf's face, and it's the most vivid, beautiful, ugly thing Sam's ever seen. Those yellow eyes dance as they watch Sam struggling to breathe. It pulls the hand out of his chest and drops him when his struggles have finally ceased some, when his arms are heavy and he's forced to stop clawing at the hand around his throat to drop them limply at his sides.  
It kneels beside him and stares into his eyes. Whispers something. Something that actually sounds human for once. But Sam can't make it out. His eyes are so heavy, he's blacking out, but he- he's dying. He can't. _He can't-_  
In a last ditch attempt, he grits his teeth, and the only thing he tastes is blood when he gets his hand around the stake at his side and by some miracle finds enough strength to push it through the man-wolf's heart. There's no victory, no triumph.  
Because the thing only throws its head back and laughs, distinctively canine. It grins at him, that same wolf grin from before, and then its dipping shaking fingers in its own blood and stroking patterns on Sam's face, whispering words Sam can't understand, probably couldn't understand even if he wasn't bleeding out and slowly losing conciousness. He tries to muster up enough strength to swat the thing's hands away, but he used it all up when he put the stake through its heart.  
Sam's eyes slip closed after a few minutes, and he actually starts thinking that the fingers stroking his face feel nice. They finally stop when he takes his last breath and he hears a soft voice. The human one from before that he couldn't make out.  
_"Little warrior. Little wolf."_  


And then Sam goes under.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I haven't actually had a lot of free time to write much this past month because my classes have been so demanding, but I'll have chapters 4 and 5 up as soon as I can. If you're enjoying this and you haven't already, please subscribe for updates.

Sam wakes in a forest. The trees are a towering circle obscuring his view of the sky as he blinks his eyes open and squints through the violent brightness of the rays of sunlight stabbing between the branches. The birds who make their homes in those branches chirp and twitter incessantly, the ground under him is a springy, itchy bed of pine needles, and it's so bright that all he wants is to close his eyes again so he can go back to sleep, but he just raises a hand to shield his eyes from the glare and sits up anyway.  
And realizes he's naked.  
A few moments later, when he gets over the initial shock of being on display for all of nature to see, he brushes off the pine needles that stick to his sweaty skin and gets up to start the search for a way to cover himself. But of course, he's smack-dab in the middle of the woods and it's not like he's actually going to be able to find much. He just hopes he doesn't find any people. He really doesn't want 'Indecent Exposure' on his permanent record, and he definitely doesn't want Dean finding out and teasing him incessantly for it, either- _Dean._  
_The sound of Dean's bones breaking._  
Sam swallows thickly. His brain pounds against the inside of his skull, his heart is a jackhammer in his chest, and he's suddenly frantic to find out where in the world he is just so he can find Dean's location relative to that. He's got to get to Dean. He's got to know Dean's okay. And there's got to be a payphone somewhere close by. Indecent exposure be damned, he's gonna find himself a few quarters and call his brother when he finds it. He doesn't care if there are school children watching.  
He foregoes brushing the pine needles from his legs and scans his immediate surroundings instead, finds a well-worn path to his right. He can hear water close by. Water usually means people; if he's in a park or something, there might be people fishing. And if not, he can always follow the river. He's bound to find some kind of civilization sooner or later. He hopes, at least.  
As he starts down the steadily sloping path toward the river, he's alert for snakes in his vulnerable, naked state. At one point, he steps on a particularly sharp rock and cuts the bottom of his foot open, so he decides to watch out for those, too. And eventually, though his journey is slowed by his bleeding foot and the caution with which he takes every step, he makes it to the bank.  
He can't tell if he's more relieved or more disappointed when he doesn't find a soul there.  
Nevertheless, he makes use of the vacant river anyway, slipping his foot into the icy water to soothe his cut and watching the little fish near the bank scramble away from the strange invader. He takes a few minutes to look around, then, only to find absolutely no sign of human life whatsoever here. There's not a single gum wrapper or empty water bottle lying around that he can see. Which is practically unheard of, no matter where he is, so he scours the riverbed for trash, sure that he'll find some evidence he's not the first to set foot here. He tries not to think about how ridiculous he undoubtedly looks, completely naked and playing garbage man, knows that Dean would be rolling with laughter if he could see Sam now. But Sam can't actually bring himself to care, because Dean would be here, safe and sound, even if he'd be having a laugh at Sam's expense.  
That's the only thought that gets him through the next half hour. He resigns himself from his search when thirty minutes have passed, when he hasn't found a damn thing to suggest that anyone has been here for a very, very long time. Anyone except some kind of large dog, if the prints on the muddy bank are anything to go by.  
Sighing, he takes a seat on one of the flatter rocks of the riverbed and finally accepts how utterly alone he is here.  
A twig snaps behind him.  
_Or is he._  
Sam jerks around and catches a fleeting movement in the trees, a flash of gray fur. He jumps up when the birds in the trees suddenly launch themselves into the air in a flurry of flapping wings, startled. And he wonders if maybe he should follow their example. He doesn't have the safety of the tree branches or the ability to take flight like those birds. Not to mention, he's alone. Naked. Scared. Weaponless. And it'll be getting dark soon.  
Decision made, he starts walking along the bank again. He can't stay here. The thing in the trees could be watching him. Could be tracking him, too. _Hunting him._  
Sam walks a little faster with that thought in his mind, tries not to start at every little swish of bushes. But he feels eyes zeroed in on the back of his skull the whole time, and he's sure he's not imagining it, either.  
The sun is low in the sky, just preparing to set, when he finally reaches the river's end, where the water flows into a lake at the very center of a wide glade. A little log cabin rests on the other side, at the very edge of the wood that threatens to swallow it all up again. The scene looks like it belongs in some children's book, and it makes Sam nervous, but it doesn't stop him from sprinting around the edge of the lake toward the cabin. He's almost positive that it's not occupied; even from at least a hundred yards away, he can see how neglected the quaint little cabin is with its rotting boards and the extensive ivy growth over one whole side, the dark layer of grime over one broken window pane. Still, it's the first sign of human life he's seen since he woke up, and he's going to need a place to wait out the night. And this place may not be perfect, but it's something.  
The door almost falls off its hinges when he opens it, and at least four mice go scurrying back across the floor to hide when he steps inside. The thick layer of dust over everything in the one room cabin makes his nose twitch with an impending sneeze, but he stalks farther into the filth to kneel down in front of the little fire place that he can see gaping up at him invitingly from the opposite wall. He figures he'll have to go back out into the forest for some wood so he can warm up the place a bit, knows that his naked skin won't be able to stand the cold air filtering in through the broken window all night.  
Before he ventures out again, he looks around the place for something to cover himself with, but he can't find so much as a dishrag and he's forced to step back out into the twilight as naked as he was when he awoke. The forest stares back at him, completely nonjudgmental, and he finds himself both somewhat comforted and left a little uneasy by the darkness creeping in. With the full moon as his only source of light, he walks to the edge of the forest to gather up some loose wood. He tries to go about it quickly, too, because he can still feel the phantom sensation of something watching him, but in the end, he's left rooting around on the edge of the forest floor for what seems like an hour before he finally starts to turn back toward the cabin, his arms filled with sticks.  
And then he stops, hardly daring to breathe, and tries to mimic the statue-esque stillness he's seen his brother unconsciously fall into countless times before while on hunts, behavior Dean learned from watching their father.  
Sam watches the trees silently, sure that he saw something moving between their ghostly silhouettes.  
But all is still and silent as twilight slowly morphs into night around him.  
Finally, and reluctantly, he makes for the cabin, walking softly and listening intently to every little sound. He's so startled by the sudden cry of an owl that he almost looses his bundle of sticks, but he somehow makes it to the door without incident and slips back inside to sit down at the fireplace with his armful. And it's there that he finds he's actually glad for the week that Dad made them camp out in the middle of nowhere just to learn to live off the land, because it takes almost twenty minutes, but he eventually manages to kindle a small flame in the fireplace.  
And in another twenty, the fire is crackling happily and greedily devouring every stick Sam feeds it. It feels strange in this kind of situation, naked and alone in some forest he's never seen before, and especially when he doesn't know where Dean is or if he's okay, but Sam feels the corners of his lips lifting in a little, self-satisfied smile nonetheless. He huddles by the fire he created and stares into the warm hearth, watches his creation lap curiously at the brick fireplace walls and feels pride swell in his chest like he's a father watching his child take its first steps.  
But his back grows cold quickly and he's eventually forced to trade the dancing flames' warmth for the cold view of the night outside the broken window. Light flickers behind him, dappling over the floorboards and casting a long shadow in front of him, and for a while he contents himself with just watching the way the firelight plays along the floor. But inevitably, his eyes lift and he finds himself gazing out the window.  
Into the eyes of a predator.  
Golden and all-seeing, the eyes that peer in at him are those of the biggest wolf that Sam's ever seen. Its size rivals that of every wolf in every zoo Dean's ever snuck the two of them into. It's massive compared to the wolves in the nature documentaries Sam was forced to watch when the only channels the motel TVs picked up were educational. Sam thinks to himself that if it were to stand on its hind legs, it would probably come up to his throat. The perfect size to rip into his jugular and crush his windpipe between its teeth.  
Huge and imposing, it watches silently as Sam goes completely cold where he sits, even with the heat stroking up his spine and across his shoulders. His breath catches in his throat, his heart thumps against his ribs alarmingly fast, and he feels his stomach drop. He's caught in it's gaze, and he can't do anything but sit there.  
A memory flashes, those same yellow eyes in the blood-flecked face of a smiling man.  
Sam is suddenly struck by how much he wants to run, but he can't, locked here in this staring contest with a beast that could be at his throat at the drop of a hat, after it busted in through the already broken window. He's frozen by the animal's gaze for what feels like hours, but could be just minutes, or even moments, before he finally breaks eye contact and stretches his bent knees out in front of himself, a subtle attempt to prepare himself to run.  
The wolf whines and stands, pacing back and forth in front of the window and peering in at him excitedly. Sam freezes again, swallowing thickly. He knows now that if he tries to make a run for it, he's done for, because this wolf _wants_ him to come outside. It's like it doesn't know that the window it's pacing in front of is already broken. Or it's some intelligent hunter that wants to make Sam decide his own doom.  
He only sees two options.  
Stay here and face the wolf when it grows too impatient and hungry to forgo using the window to get at its prey, or try to run and only get chased down and mauled to death in the dead of night. And who knows if this wolf is the only one out there; Sam knows they're pack animals, knows that if this one can't bring him down on its own, there will probably be others. Maybe the same size as the monster that waits outside.  
Sam stays where he is, with the fire's warmth at his back as his only comfort.  
An idea flares up in his mind, then, white hot and all-consuming like the fire behind him.  
He reaches out gingerly, pulls over the biggest stick in his pile. The wolf watches curiously as Sam offers it some of his back to stretch around and put the end of the stick in the fire. When the end is lit, Sam pulls it back, holds it low while he meets those yellow eyes again and slowly rises up from his place on the floor. He doesn't break their gazes as he starts forward, toward the window, and the wolf doesn't move, solemn eyes intent on Sam's.  
And then Sam's arm snaps out through the broken window and the flame at the end of the stick in his hand touches fur and skin for a fleeting moment. The wolf yelps in pain, startled, and jumps back to get away.  
A grin finds its way onto Sam's face. "Hurts, doesn't it?"  
The wolf slinks back from the burning stick Sam holds in front of him, looking hurt, yes. But it's more than that, really; with the way it keeps looking at Sam, ears flush with its skull and yellow eyes full of anguish, like Sam's broken its trust, he'd even say it looks something like betrayal. Still, the miserable creature starts back toward Sam after a few moments, and when Sam holds his makeshift torch out toward it in warning, it gets low to the ground, laying on its belly submissively as it inches back to its place beneath the window. From there, it looks up at Sam pleadingly, wounded animal that it is, and Sam's lowering his torch out of guilt and pity when the howling starts up.  
It's close, so close that it makes Sam turn away from the beast in favor of looking over his shoulder, bewildered, but when he looks back, the wolf at the window is gone.  
He takes a few steps back, scared that somehow the wolf has summoned its pack and they're finally here to try and find a way to get in at him.  
And something does try. But it's no wolf.  
The yells, the banging on the walls and then the roof, that's all man. And it terrifies Sam. Much more than any wolf ever could. A wolf would just eat him; Sam knows the kinds of cruel things animals in human form can do.  
Another flash of memory, a bloody grin that sends shivers down his spine. Animals in human form.  
When he comes back to himself, Sam is looking back into yellow eyes. But they're not the wolf's.  
They're his. But he's not... himself. It's like he's looking at a mirror image. But this Sam in front of him feels different somehow. Besides the yellow eyes.  
The night is silent and still around them until Sam, the real Sam, swallows, tries to make his voice come out strong when he tilts up his chin and meets those yellow eyes, "What do you want from me?"  
_"Let me in, little one,"_ Sam-not-Sam replies, his voice rich and deep and distinctly not his. It sounds almost... native. And it's so strange to hear something like that pass his own lips. _"Let me in and we will hunt."_  
A vision assaults him, and he sees himself running through a forest, faster than he's ever been before, sees himself taking down a werewolf that would usually overpower even someone of Sam's size. Sees himself ripping out its heart with his bare hands. Sinking his teeth into the still frantically pumping cardiac muscle. Blood gushing down his chin and running down his throat, he makes a pleasantly surprised, little noise, the same noise anyone would make after biting into a particularly juicy tomato.  
_"We will protect."_  
Another vision, and this time he's in a graveyard, and Sam feels vengeance thrumming in his blood as he storms the mausoleum. He tears apart the ghouls that stole his brother, shreds the whole pack of them as easy as paper, and then carries Dean back out of the tomb as gingerly as possible, puts him in the back of the Impala, and drives back to the motel. He treats Dean's wounds and crawls into bed with him that night, wraps himself around Dean to ward off everything that could possibly hurt his brother just because he knows he's strong enough to do just that.  
_"We will take what we want."_  
In this vision, Sam sees himself on a hunt with Dean, investigating a victim's story, and all he has to do is look at this woman to compel her to tell him everything that she saw. It's the easiest interrogation Sam's ever seen, and an almost easier hunt follows. But what really shocks Sam is what follows the hunt. He's still covered in black dog blood when Dean jumps him, right in the middle of a public park in the middle of the night, wraps his legs around Sam's waist and attacks Sam's mouth with hungry kisses. And Sam feels his dick give a needy pulse as he watches himself take his brother, right there in the grass, where anyone could see.  
_"And we will eradicate the evil that flows through your veins, Sam Winchester. We are not like the one that came before us. We are strong, stronger than even he, because we are not cursed. Your mother did not die at your hands."_ Sam-not-Sam's eyes soften then. _"No matter how you feel. You are not like the one that came before us. You cannot be killed so easily. You are strong; you have a soul. And we will bond well, you and I."_  
_Evil?_ He wants to know, but that's not what comes out.  
"Bond?" Sam asks instead, feeling like he's going crazy, and he must be going crazy, he must. Because Sam-not-Sam is reaching out to him, offering his hand, palm up, and damn him, Sam is reaching back. Sam is reaching back and he barely touches his own hand before his fingers sink into sleek, gray fur.  
The wolf smiles up at him, yellow eyes dancing with a warmth to rival that of any fire.  


And then Sam's eyes snap open wide and he's staring up at Dad. Dad who is very clearly worried sick out of his mind if Sam goes by the frantic way he's shaking his son and calling that stupid, childish nickname, his voice carrying nothing but distress.  
Dad hasn't even realized he's awake yet, and Sam has to wonder why because he can see the man perfectly even in this dark... and that's when Sam realizes something's wrong. He can see in the dark; _he has night vision._ He almost takes a moment to try and process that a little better, but instead, he lays a hand over the hand on his chest still trying to jar him awake, has to fight not to bite down on his tongue because Dad's shaking him so hard his teeth are clacking together when he speaks. "Dad. Dad, I'm alr- it's alright."  
John shakes him for a few moments longer before he finally seems to comprehend the fact that those words just came out of Sam's mouth. And then those strong arms are wrapping around Sam and pulling him up against that chest and Sam feels his own heart give a warm pulse as he grips onto the back of Dad's jacket. But the moment ends too quickly, with John shying away from physical affection the same way he taught Dean, pulling back from Sam to cast a surveying look over his son's face, "Are you alright, Sammy? What happened?"  
Sam knows Dad wouldn't be asking that question if there was any clear evidence of what had transpired between Sam and the man-wolf and confirms that by glancing over at his side. There's no body that he can see. And when he drags a hand over his face, he doesn't find any caked blood there, either, so he shakes his head. He doesn't feel too much like being interrogated right now and he's scared of whatever that thing did to him, what he agreed to in that dream. If it was a dream. He figures it's better just to lie to his father for now and feigns ignorance, "I don't know. All I remember is that thing was chasing me and I think I fell or something, hit my head and blacked out. Sorry, Dad."  
The man looks a little unconvinced and Sam chides himself for the lame story, but Dad lets it slide for now at least. Sam's sure that there will be more questions later, but he's glad for this silence now as his father helps him to his feet. At least until Dad opens his mouth to say something that makes Sam's blood turn to ice in his veins. "Dean's got a broken arm. I carried him to the Impala already, gave him some pills for the pain. It's not much, but it should help tide him over till we get to Bobby's."  
"Why are we going to Bobby's? Dad, Dean should be going to the hospital! What the fuck are you thinking? Bobby's is almost a day's drive away right now!" Sam practically snarls, suddenly so angry he wants to sucker-punch his father in the face, but then he feels the phantom sensation of fur under his skin and clamps his mouth shut, shocked at his own reaction and what that unchecked rage seems to have brought to the surface.  
John just sighs, and Sam sees how exhausted the man is in the droop of his shoulders and the bags under his eyes, the ashen color of his face. "I know, Sam. I know. But it's the only safe place I can think to go right now. We don't know what the hell that thing was, if it'll follow us. We gotta play it safe, see if Bobby knows anything about it."  
Sam knows that that thing definitely won't be doing any following anytime soon, but he can't tell John that, of course. He nods, defeated, and then glances up at his father sympathetically, "You want me to drive?"  
John offers him a small, tired smile and Sam feels himself sheepishly return it.  
The walk back to the car is in silence, but when they get back down to the main road and Sam hears Dean's disoriented yells, realizes that it's _Sam's_ stupid nickname he's calling, he breaks into a run. Throws his whole story about falling and hitting his head right out the window when he does it, too, because he'd noticed Dad walking a little slower as they went along, presumably for his benefit. But Sam really can't bring himself to care right now.  
He's got to get his hands on his brother. He _needs_ to feel Dean, alive and safe in his arms.  
He doesn't realize just how fast he gets to the car until he's already there, and Dad's at least a good two hundred yards behind him. But he can't think about that now. Not when the only thing separating him from his brother is one of the rear doors of the Impala.  
He pops the handle and it gives a pleasant little squeak when he pulls the door open. Immediately, he's hit with a wave of scent that's distinctly Dean, earthy and musky, smelling of leather and whiskey and home. His dick stirs in his jeans, but he ignores it as he climbs into the back of the Impala to pull Dean over against his side. Dean just leans into Sam and cradles his broken arm until his pain-addled brain finally realizes who's in the car with him, and then Dean's good hand is immediately all over Sam, checking to make sure he's okay, that he made it out all in one piece. Sam's dick gives another insistent pulse because of the way Dean's hand is dragging up over Sam's chest and across his nipples through the thin flannel he's wearing under his open jacket, and all Sam wants to do is drag his brother into his lap and kiss him until Dean understands that he really is alive and more than okay, really.  
_Mate,_ he thinks possessively, reverently, lovingly, and pulls Dean's chin up to look into those beautiful, pained, green eyes.  
_He wants. So much that it hurts._  
And then Dean says three words that change everything.  
"Sammy," Dean slurs, a weak smile pulling up the corners of that unbelievable mouth. "You're okay."  
And Sam's whole world is reduced to his big brother in that one second. Because Dean is bleeding. His arm is a mess where it rests against his knee, only held together by tendons and muscle, bone sticking out of his flesh at a strange angle. It's clear that he's in so much pain that it must be taking all of his energy to check over Sam's body and make sure he's okay, even more to say those trivial words. But he's so relieved that his little brother is here and alive and safe that he has to say them.  
Sam is so overwhelmed by emotion that he can't stop himself.  
He crushes their mouths together, his eyes shut tight because he can feel tears stinging. Kissing Dean is a lot like kissing a brick wall for the first few moments; Dean's so unresponsive, so rigid and stiff. And Sam almost moans into Dean's mouth when Dean finally parts his lips for him, opens for him and melts against Sam's side like he knows he's supposed to. That this is what he was meant for.  
Sam surges forward, thrusting his tongue between those now pliant lips and raising one hand to clench the front of Dean's leather jacket in his fist.  
Dean's leather jacket. _Dad's_ leather jacket.  
And just like that he remembers where he is and snaps back from his brother like he's on a bungee.  
Dean stares up at him, uncertain, hesitant, his lips wet with Sam's saliva and a little swollen from being kissed so hard. He looks like he doesn't even realize what just happened. Which might very well be the case. He's in pain and those pills Dad gave him could be having an effect on his perception, and _oh, fuck, Sam just took advantage of his injured brother._  
"Dean, I-" He starts, but he doesn't get a chance to fix it because then Dad's there, climbing into the passenger seat of the Impala and glancing back behind him at his two sons.  
"You drivin', Sammy?"  
Sam grits his teeth and nods, resists the urge to hang his head in defeat. It takes all of his willpower to tear himself from his brother. Especially when something beneath the surface is straining toward Dean so hard that Sam can almost feel the thing stretching his skin. But somehow, he manages to make his body climb out of the backseat and into the driver's. And he's a lot stronger than he feels, apparently, because he survives the entire fifteen hour drive without pulling over to stop and give in to the thing demanding he put his arms around Dean, without waking his snoring father beside him in the passenger seat when his tired eyes start drooping after he finally crosses into South Dakota, without breaking down because he's been _infected_ with something.  


They make it to Bobby's around eight o'clock, when it's just starting to get dark and the fireflies have reluctantly emerged out into the night to start their dancing and Bobby's probably just getting ready for bed. Which means he's laid up on the couch so he can hear the phones, and he's downed half a pint of alcohol to help him sleep dreamlessly.  
The place hasn't changed much in the years that have passed since their last visit. The only nuance Sam really notes is the big rottweiler that rouses from its sleep underneath one of Bobby's old trucks when they pull into the driveway. Their arrival is greeted with a fit of barking that could wake the dead, and Bobby inevitably comes out onto the porch to see what all the ruckus is, a shotgun in his hands.  
His expression only hardens when he sees the familiar, sleek, black body of the Winchesters' Impala.  
But when Sam gets out of the driver's seat, he looks a little taken aback, clearly doesn't remember any of the Winchesters being that tall. It makes Sam want to smile. But he doesn't. Because the dog is still barking loudly, and now pulling on the heavy chain that's pegged beneath the old truck, eyes fixed decidedly on Sam.  
It doesn't bark at John when he carries Dean up the steps to Bobby, doesn't so much as look John's way when the man passes, too focused on Sam. On the passenger that Sam carries beneath his skin.  
Bobby's a smart man. And this isn't your average guard dog.  
Sam's sure it wouldn't have reacted like this if it had just been ordinary people pulling into Bobby's driveway. This dog's probably even affectionate toward people. Sure, Bobby got himself a rottweiler because they look mean, and just seeing one would probably deter even the smartest thief, but it wasn't actually intended to warn Bobby of people in the salvage yard. That much is clear by the frothy white slobber that drips from its jowls and spatters the ground when it snaps and snarls as Sam puts an experimental foot forward. And the confused look Bobby shoots him after he's ushered John inside and told him where the pain meds are stashed.  
"That you, Sam?" Bobby calls, starting down the steps. "Dang, boy, you got big."  
"Yeah, Bobby. Been a long time, huh?" Sam smiles nervously, "Your, ah, your new dog doesn't seem to like me much."  
Bobby comes to a stop at the dog's side, where the rottweiler tries its hardest to put itself between Sam and its master. Bobby just pats its head consolingly, "Rumsfeld here can be a little weary of strangers." Sam recognizes that as the lie that it is, but he doesn't call Bobby on it as the man reaches into the breast pocket of his flannel to pull out a silver flask. He offers it to Sam with a good-natured smile, "Drink? He might calm down after he realizes you're a friend."  
Sam swallows, knowing full-well that it's not alcohol that the flask holds. He doesn't have time to worry about the way the holy water might react to coming into contact with his insides, though. Not if he wants Bobby to believe that whatever he's harboring isn't actually aggressive. Which, going by his earlier interaction with Dad, it very well could be. But he raises the flask to his lips anyway.  
The water is disgusting, and it tastes of metal because it's been sitting in the flask for so long, but it doesn't burn his throat as it goes down. Bobby was obviously expecting some kind of reaction, because he looks taken aback that Sam's mouth isn't smoking when he offers the flask back with a smile, "Salt?"  
Bobby reaches into one pocket of his jeans, pulls out a packet of table salt. Sam takes it with no argument, rips it open and pours it into his mouth.  
No reaction. Other than the fact that he immediately wants to spit it out because it's just too much salt. He swallows anyway, just to prove his point, and when Bobby offers him a silver blade, he rolls up his sleeve and drags it across his skin, wincing as the blood wells up to the surface. Bobby watches, silently, and accepts his knife back after Sam's wiped both sides of the blade off on his jeans. It's only after he's pocketed the knife that he finally says, "Well, I guess even Rumsfeld can make a mistake every now and again."  
Sam swallows and doesn't meet the man's eyes, "I'm not so sure it is a mistake, Bobby."  
"What do you mean, son?" There's apprehension in his voice, but Bobby doesn't look scared when Sam glances back up at him.  
"I mean... I think. Whatever we were hunting. I think it infected me with something," Sam whispers, just in case John might be listening.  
"Well you passed all the tests. You couldn't be a demon, couldn't be anything that could have some kind of averse reaction to sodium, couldn't be a werewolf or a shifter or a ghoul. As far as I can tell, son, you're clean," Bobby replies, almost too lightly.  
"I've never seen anything like the thing we were hunting, Bobby. It... It wasn't normal."  
Bobby forgoes the obvious 'nothing's normal, ya idjit; you're a hunter.' It seems like he understands what Sam's saying. He nods and reaches out to put a hand on Sam's shoulder, much to a whining Rumsfeld's objection, and pulls him over toward the front steps. "Whatever it was, I don't think I'm in any real danger. I've known you since you were four, Sam. You wouldn't hurt a fly. And you puked when I tried to teach you how to gut a deer. There's no way in hell you'd be able to gut a beer-bellied old man like me easy."  
Sam is startled into a laugh and Bobby smiles up at him. It might not actually reach Bobby's eyes, but it still comforts Sam the way it's meant to. And Sam's glad that Bobby realizes he needs that comfort right now, when he doesn't know what the hell's inside him and his brother could lose an arm if his injury goes untreated for much longer.  
Speaking of Dean, he's laid up on Bobby's couch when they walk in, passed out and cradling his broken arm, still wrapped in one of Sam's now blood-soaked flannels that Dad pulled out of the first bag he found upon opening the trunk. And apart from that very distracting detail, the place looks like they never left. Sam could swear every book in the place is exactly where Bobby left it on their last visit, over four years ago. Except he knows that time _has_ passed, because the house seems smaller now that he's gotten so tall; it's not half as huge and mysterious as it was when he was just some half-pint, fourteen year old kid. It's just Bobby's place now. But Sam knows that it will always carry more warmth in its walls than any motel room he and Dean ever spent their nights in, growing up.  
Because Bobby was never some desk clerk threatening to sue if they broke anything and sneering down at a seven year old Sam sniffling and clinging to his eleven year old brother's side after their dad left them on their own to go on a hunt. No, Bobby's the man who understood that they were just kids and didn't raise hell when Dean accidentally threw a baseball through the second story window. Bobby's blood. And he proves that as he gives Sam's shoulder a squeeze before he heads for the phones to call up the closest doctor willing to cater to hunters, no questions asked, and see about getting a broken Dean all patched up.  
Before Sam gets the chance, John pulls a chair from the kitchen into the front room and takes up residence beside Dean's head while they wait for the good doctor, much to Sam's chagrin. But he doesn't have to put up with that discontent or wallow in the spiraling whirlpool of emotions he's feeling for long, because that's when Bobby pulls him aside, into the kitchen. "Alright. Tell me what happened."  
Sam shoots the living room an apprehensive glance, worried John might overhear, "Bobby, I don't know where to start-"  
"Start at the beginning, Sam. I can't help ya if I don't know what we're dealin' with here. What were you boys hunting?"  
"Well, we, ah, we thought it was a chupacabra at first. Because of the goat and sheep slaughters. It fit all of the criteria, Bobby. It drained the bodies and then ate them. But it- it wasn't. It wasn't a chupacabra." And then Sam recounts it all for Bobby, omitting nothing but the kiss he shared with Dean in the car and the things he was promised, the visions the thing showed him while he was dreaming.  
Bobby looks perplexed when Sam finally finishes, but he doesn't look frightened for his life, and that's something. "New Mexico?" he checks, and when Sam nods, Bobby's mouth sets in a grim frown. "I was afraid of that."  
"Why? What-" Sam lowers his voice, eyes blown wide. "Bobby, what's inside of me?"  
"From everything you've told me, I'm guessing you boys came into contact with some kind of Navajo witch. They're called yee naaldlooshii, but popular culture calls them skinwalkers."  
"Skinwalkers? Bobby, that wasn't a skinwalker. Dad's hunted skinwalkers before, and I'm pretty sure that was nothing like anything Dad's ever seen."  
"Son, you think these things come branded with names? For centuries, hunters have used the lore of other cultures to put a label on whatever it is they come across. But the skinwalker that you boys saw last night, that was the real deal." Sam notices Bobby shiver a little and knows it's not from the cold. He doesn't blame the man, he can barely believe he survived it himself. "They're not shapeshifters, Sam. They walk on two legs, but they've got an animal bound inside 'em, an ancient spirit some native cultures believe in. And according to lore, calling down an animal spirit to bind it usually takes an act of great evil to rid the body of a soul. They lock the spirit inside and then they can call on certain attributes of that animal at will, and sometimes even unconsciously. They're strong, but they're usually not too hard to kill if you manage to get in close. They die just like regular humans; hell, if John had pulled a gun on the son of a bitch point-blank, it would have dropped like a sack of potatoes. But it worries me, what it did to you whenever it was dying."  
"What was that, Bobby? A curse? A spell?"  
"I don't know, boy, but judging from the dream you had, I'd say it's pretty certain you've got your own furry little friend."  
"In the dream. It said that we would bond well? That I wasn't like the one from before and I'd be stronger because I still had a soul?"  
Bobby sighs, "Maybe these things are opportunists? Maybe they'll jump the bones of any Tom, Dick, or Harry that comes along and seems stronger? Sam, I'm sorry, but nothing I've read about these things says anything at all about animal spirits being transferred or bonding with someone who already has a soul."  
Sam runs his hands through his steadily growing hair and wants to tear it all out. He's never felt so powerless in his whole life. "What do I do, Bobby?"  
Bobby lays a hand on his shoulder in answer and waits for Sam to look up at him before he says, "We're gonna figure this out, kid. I'll dig around, see if I can find anything. But you gotta keep it together in the mean time, understand?"  
Sam nods, and he feels something stirring inside of him, something that feels worried and upset. And he _does_ feel worried and upset, but this feels different. This feels like whatever passenger he's carrying is afraid of what Bobby might find. And it makes his heart leap into his throat as hope blooms, bright and brilliant, in its place.  
Bobby heads back out of the kitchen, effectively ending their conversation with a finality and firmness that Sam doesn't have a hope of ignoring. He follows the man back into the front room and then heads out to the Impala to retrieve his bag and changes clothes, right out there in the open because he doesn't give a damn who's watching. Rumsfeld's eyes are on him, of that he's certain. The dog's gaze never leaves him as he takes the steps back up to the porch and goes back inside to take a seat on one windowsill. He alternates between glancing at a still sleeping Dean to make sure he hasn't gotten any worse and peeking through the heavy curtains over the window at his back, looking for headlights. Another ten minutes pass in silence before the cars start pulling up out front, headlights nearly blinding Sam, but he can't bring himself to look away, can't feel anything other than relief.  
Especially when a whole team of people start filing into Bobby's living room, carrying in bags of medical equipment.  
One woman with wiry, gray hair pulled tight in a bun and a stern look on her slightly wrinkled face, comes over to clap Bobby on the back and pull him into a hug, blue eyes twinkling. "Bobby Singer. It's been a long time."  
"Yeah, Marcie, it has," Bobby laughs as she pulls back and gives him a grin. "Sorry to call you outta the blue like this, but the boy's-"  
"Got himself a compound fracture. Looks like he might've severed some nerves and arteries, too. We've gotta go in and see if there's anything to salvage. And even if we can fix 'im, there's still a chance he may never use that hand again, you know that, right, Singer?" Marcie is back to professional in the blink of an eye, all the warmth gone from her expression as she tries to prepare Bobby for the worst possible outcome. Bobby only nods, but Sam's whole world is spinning around him.  
_Dean. Dean may never use his arm again. He won't be able to hunt. He won't- No,_ he tells himself, _this is a good thing. Dean won't be able to get hurt like this again if he can't hunt. He won't die the hunter's death like so many before them; Dean will trade the hunter's life for something typical and domestic, grow fat and content as a house cat and live till he's old and gray._  
But even as he tries to convince himself that this is the beginning of a long and happy life for Dean, Sam knows that this will kill his brother. Dean will still bite a bullet. But it will come from the barrel of his own gun.  
The thing inside him rears its head again, fur brushing under his skin, and he feels its anguish in his bones. Whatever it is, it seems to love Dean the same way that Sam does. Maybe because Sam does. Either way, the thought of losing him weighs heavy on their shared heart, and Sam hears a pitiful whimper from somewhere deep inside himself- _Mate. Can't lose mate._  
Sam may agree with it there, but that doesn't stop him from shaking his head and trying to bury the thing in his subconscious as Marcie turns to join her surgical team. Bobby gives him a sympathetic look and practically pushes him out the front door and onto the porch, grumbling that it won't do Dean any good for them to stand around worrying and getting under Marcie's feet. John joins them a few moments later, but Sam is almost certain it's only because Marcie had to force him outside. He's always been nothing but stubborn when it comes to his sons and what's best for them.  
But Sam falters where he sits on the front porch steps as he watches his father fall into one of Bobby's old lawn chairs, looking more defeated than Sam's ever seen him. Bobby's only attempt to speak is thwarted when John raises a hand silently, more of a pathetic plea than a real order to stop. But it doesn't matter; it still makes Bobby clam up where he stands, because John looks at him then, and all of the pain he feels for his son is right there in his eyes, red and raw and aching. And Sam's never seen his father cry.  
John sits in the old lawn chair, silent tears trickling down his cheeks, Bobby pulls the hat off of his head and wrings it between his hands, and Sam just sits there, feeling so utterly alone without his big brother by his side and the phantom sensation of Dean's arm around his shoulders. In the five, silent hours that pass, none of them move, though Sam can sense Bobby's wanted to. The Winchesters bring nothing but trouble and heartache whenever they come calling on him; Sam can't fault him for wanting to get up and leave, especially with the morbid atmosphere spilling out around them and contaminating the air.  
Finally though, the silence is broken as the door squeaks open and Marcie pokes her head out, "We've done all we can." Her steely blue eyes soften, somber and apologetic, "But there was a lot of damage. Some of it irreparable."  
"Will he be okay-" Sam starts, but Marcie puts up a hand, cutting him off.  
"He's not going to be able to wield a gun with his right hand anymore. And no, not even a handgun. That much I'm sure of. So his outlook on hunting isn't good." She forces a smile onto her face and Sam feels bile rising in his throat. "But that doesn't mean he can't live a long and happy, fulfilling life. He can teach himself to use his non-dominant left hand to do daily things."  
Sam rises from the steps and turns his whole body to face her, wills himself to look strong and imposing when all he wants to do is fling himself at her feet and beg her to be lying. He shoulders past her and storms into the living room, brows down low over his eyes and his mouth drawn into a defiant frown, like he can change the truth if he only refuses to accept it, "I don't believe you."  
But he still comes up short when he sees Dean on the couch, upper body propped up by a few of Bobby's lumpy throw pillows, staring down intensely at the heavily bandaged arm in his lap. His eyebrows are drawn low over green eyes narrowed in concentration, and Sam knows then that Dean is willing his fingers to move, willing the feeling back into them. Sam also knows that he'll get nowhere, that that's just how their luck runs in this family.  
"Dean, I-" Sam starts, but he doesn't know what to say. He thinks he means to say he's sorry, but he doesn't know what he's apologizing for. It doesn't matter though, because then Dean is turning a sad smile on him, those green eyes softening. And it's all Sam can do not to go over there and kiss that sad smile right off of his brother's face. He'd rather have the anger from before than have to see this. Because it's blatantly obvious in that smile that Dean _knows_ all of his attempts are futile. He's just going through the motions, trying not to crack beneath this new weight. And he's always been like that for Sam- an anchor, a rock. It's only fair that Sam should return the favor.  
So he returns that smile and makes his way across the room to the couch, where he falls onto the cushion near Dean's feet, pulls them into his lap. "Hey, Dean."  
"Sammy. Hey. You really okay?" Dean's voice is cautious, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. It would be just like fate to fuck them twice.  
Sam rubs at his brother's socked feet, tries his hardest not to meet Dean's eyes because he's afraid he'll see the lie in them. He's not okay. Not in the slightest. Not at all. But his voice is even, and the tremor he fears is nowhere to be heard when he replies, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."  
Sam feels the tension practically evaporate from his brother's body, hears Dean's sigh of relief. "Good. That's... that's good."  
"God, Dean, I am so sorry." Sam gets it out then, and he knows now what he's apologizing for.  
For the kiss. For loving Dean more than he should. For letting him get hurt. For not being strong enough, fast enough, to protect him. For agreeing to something sinister so that he could. For the thing inside of him, digging for something in Sam's mind and flinging flashes of memory scattering. He blinks and he catches scenes from his childhood, all involving Dean.  
Dean teaching him how to write his name when he was four, following the scrawl of Dean's letter's and trying to connect them with the warm way Dean mumbled his name. He went to kindergarten the next year telling everyone his name was Sam but writing 'Sammy' unknowingly on all of his papers.  
Dad coming home to find an eight year old Sam huddled on the bed in front of the TV with a twelve year old Dean and a bowl of microwave popcorn between them, watching a horror movie marathon. Dean hadn't protested too much when Sam curled up even closer than usual after John turned off the TV and finally sent them to bed.  
His fourteenth birthday. The bracelet. Getting soaked in the rain with the big brother that he loved more than anything in the world.  
It settles on that memory, recognizes that it took place here, remembers Sam thinking about how Bobby's hadn't changed much in four years.  
And then it does something that scares the hell out of Sam.  
It shoves Sam to the back of his own mind and surges forward, taking control of Sam's body to reach down and run a curious finger over the band still at his wrist.  
And that's all it does. It doesn't hurt Dean. Doesn't even look Dean's way. Even though Sam is sure that it could. It's strong enough to hold Sam back here for ages. But the barrier that it puts up to prevent Sam from taking back control is torn down as soon as its curiosity is satisfied and Sam rushes to the forefront of his mind to regain control, doesn't even have to shove the thing back where it belongs because it goes willingly. And when he comes back to himself, only a moment has passed. Dean is just answering him, seemingly a bit bewildered by Sam's apology, "Don't be sorry, Sam. It... it wasn't your fault."  
But it is, oh god, it is. And before he can stop himself, Sam's crying.  
He flinches when Dean pulls him in closer with his good hand, wrapping both arms around Sam and holding him close, good hand up in Sam's hair, petting him awkwardly. "Hey, hey. Sammy, Sammy, it's okay. I'm okay."  
But hearing those words just makes Sam cry harder. Because he knows that Dean should be the one crying. Because Dean's brother is a monster. In every sense of the word. And on top of that, Dean wouldn't even be capable of defending himself from his monster brother anymore.  
The thing inside of Sam whines, brushes up against his insides to try and comfort Sam. But Sam only feels the sting of humiliation and anger. He doesn't need its pity.  
_Half of this is your fault,_ Sam snarls, and he wishes there was some way for him to chuck something at it.  
It delves deeper inside Sam's mind to escape his wrath, slinking back from him and whimpering, and Sam is reminded of the wolf from his dream.  
But he doesn't let himself think about it anymore, focuses on the way Dean feels against his side, the way Dean's fingers are combing through his hair, the way Dean's strong arms feel wrapped around him, holding him together so he doesn't fall apart. It shouldn't be so easy to fall asleep when he feels so helpless, so vulnerable, so young, but his big brother's got him. Dean's got him. Dean's always got him.  


But when he opens his eyes, he's alone. In the forest from before. Naked again, but it doesn't take as long for him to get over that little detail. Not this time. Not now that he knows it's all just a dream-  
_"Not a dream, little one."_ Sam-not-Sam steps out from the trees, a knowing smile turning up the corners of his lips. _"This, this is our home. In the future."_  
Sam tries to reign himself in, determined to resign himself to silence in the hopes that this thing will grow bored with him and finally just leave him the hell alone, maybe jump right out of his grapefruit, but he can't resist the temptation to ask. "What?"  
_"This calm place, this peace. Away from all the bloodshed to come,"_ Sam-not-Sam shivers a little, his golden eyes shining seemingly with the threat of tears. But he steels himself and focuses on Sam, _"This could be yours, Sam Winchester. If only you choose to let us in."_  
"You know what you sound like?" Sam spits back, taking a step toward his strange, yellow-eyed doppelganger, "Talking about the future and making deals for a price? You sound like a demon. Like the demon I know that my dad is hunting. The one that killed my mom."  
Sam-not-Sam's hackles raise at the accusation and he takes his own step forward, eyes shining with violence and aggression now, _"We are no hell-spawn, Sam Winchester. We would sooner gnaw our own leg off than be lumped with their kind. And we do not make deals."_ Sam-not-Sam's eyes soften then, _"Though we would make an exception."_  
"You think I'd want to deal with you?" Sam scoffs incredulously, folding his arms over his chest.  
A sad, little smile graces Sam-not-Sam's face. He only says one word.  
_"Mate."_  
Sam's knees buckle. He goes sprawling in the dirt and pine needles on the ground, curls his hands in the soil for something to hold onto and then around his throat, not caring that he's smearing filth all over his skin. It feels like something is obstructing his airway. No, no, he's hyperventilating. His breathing goes fast and shallow. He can't get enough air. _He can't-_  
Sam-not-Sam plays him a vision that fills his lungs.  
Dean, happy and whole again in the driver's seat of the Impala, Sam at his side. He reaches out to turn the volume up on the stereo, blaring ACDC for the world to hear and singing along without a care in the world, eyes crinkling up with his smile at Sam's laughter. They drive for a while before Dean pulls over to fuel the car up at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, and he tosses the keys to Sam over his shoulder when he goes to pre-pay inside. His smile then is like the sun, nearly blinding Sam and warming him all over.  
_Dean. He could save Dean._  
"What do you want?' Sam gasps, but he knows he'd give anything in that moment. _Anything._  
And he knows that this thing knows it, too.  
But Sam-not-Sam just smiles, _"We would only have you consider trusting us more, Sam Winchester."_  
"That's it?" Sam checks, sure he must not have heard right.  
Sam-not-Sam's smile turns sad. _"Dean is precious to Sam Winchester. And so he is precious to us. Not only that, but we ache with his hurt. To be an animal made lame by a trap set by cruel human hands is the saddest fate that could befall one of our kind. And sadly, it happens all too often."_  
"What do you mean?" Sam asks, genuinely curious.  
_"Animal spirits, Sam Winchester. The Singer man talked of us to you. We heard him. All that he spoke of was true- these men call us down with sacrifices, kill their own kin to rid themselves of souls to bind ours to their bodies. Most who answer such calls are naive,"_ Sam-not-Sam shuffles his bare feet in the dirt a little, obviously embarrassed. _"We... found the spirit realm tiresome, boring. We longed for the hunt, Sam Winchester. It made us careless, reckless, you understand. But in the end, we were happy with the one who found us. Who liberated us from the flesh prison that held us."_ Sam-not-Sam looks at him then with something that can only be called adoration. _"Sam Winchester, you are our true soulmate. We are made for each other, body and mind."_  
"So you're... you're an animal spirit? A wolf, right?" Sam allows, hesitant.  
Sam-not-Sam nods, grinning sheepishly, _"Yes... It was regrettable, that first meeting with you in our true form. We thought it best to take something more... familiar when speaking to you in this way. We hoped perhaps what happened before could be avoided like this."_ Its grin falters a little, _"We do not like the flame, Sam Winchester. It hurts us."_  
Sam makes a note of that, but stores it away without asking any of the questions he really wants to. Instead, he looks at his strange doppelganger, tries to picture the wolf from before in its place. He doesn't need to ask.  
Sam-not-Sam disappears without a word and the wolf stares up at him in his place, solemn golden eyes fixed on Sam's face.  
It flinches back a little when Sam holds out a hand, and Sam immediately feels the sting of guilt because it's obviously expecting something akin to the pain it felt at their last meeting, but he only crouches down, waits. And he doesn't have to wait long before the wolf steps forward cautiously, golden eyes locked on Sam's until its within reach and all Sam has to do is lower his hand... He finally feels fur and smiles, stroking his fingers through the soft tufts of gray.  
The wolf leans into his touch, warmth radiating off of it in gentle waves as Sam slides his hand along its flank.  
_Trust us, Sam Winchester. We will heal mate and you will see. You will learn to trust us._  


Sam only blinks and then he's staring at the ceiling of Bobby's house beside his snoring brother. His snoring brother who's still petting Sam in his sleep. _Petting Sam in his sleep with his_ right _hand._  
When Sam shakes Dean awake, it's only by some miracle that he doesn't kiss him. Because it's honestly the cutest thing he's ever seen, Dean is so oblivious. But he's startled at first, eyes going wide in surprise. The initial shock fades into annoyance when all he finds is a smiling Sam beaming at him, right in his face. He waves Sam away with his right hand, muttering, "Damn, Sammy, can't a guy get some sleep around here?"  
"Dean, Dean, your hand-"  
"My hand is fine. Just let me go back to sleep, you overgrown puppy." The wolf inside of Sam perks up at that, snuffling a laugh. Sam only grins and moves in closer, makes a grab at Dean's right hand and is thwarted when Dean rolls over and curls around it protectively. "I ain't holdin' hands with you!"  
Sam rolls his eyes in exasperation, but he's not giving up yet. No, he folds himself down over his brother, prying an arm under him to get at the hand. Dean retaliates, shoving up with his shoulders in an attempt to throw Sam off and then rolling over when that doesn't work, glaring daggers up at him.  
_"Get. Off. Sam."_ Every word is accompanied by a slap to Sam's bicep, and Dean doesn't realize until after the third that he's been using his "damaged" hand.  
When he does though, his eyes go wide once more. He takes his eyes off of his brother and looks down at his hand. Curls his fingers. Straightens them. And then reaches up to get a fistful of Sam's shirt and pull him down into the biggest bear-hug Sam's ever received.  
Their laughter echoes through the whole house, and it's the thing that brings John and Bobby back inside to investigate.  
They stop in the doorway, taken aback by the sight of Sam sitting on Dean's stomach and having the life hugged out of him. Dean lets Sam up though, after a moment, and Sam has to pause before he speaks to get his laughter under control and wipe the brimming tears out of his eyes, but eventually, he gets out, _"Dean's- Dean's arm."_  
Dean ruffles Sam's shaggy hair with his right hand, grinning, and then John and Bobby are over in a flash, asking him what happened. All they get out of Dean is that he woke up and it was fine. But Sam knows what really happened. He knows, and he sends a silent thank you to the wolf, admonishing that it can't be all bad since it did fix Dean.  
The wolf lays out beneath Sam's skin, and Sam can feel it, just before it blinks out like a light, asleep, basking in the knowledge that he may warm up to it yet.  
_It's certainly a start._


End file.
